


i don't want a friend

by shizuoh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, first year akaashi + second year bokuto, hq chapter 331 spoilers, incorporates most of my own headcanons, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-11-12 16:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18014762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shizuoh/pseuds/shizuoh
Summary: " the idle fleeting thought that he was a star crossed my mind . . . it was like a blast of ice water to the face. "meeting bokuto koutarou for the first time was like unlocking a new part of his brain - a part that contained nothing but the sight of golden eyes and red hands and the sound of volleyballs smacking against floors and cheers of triumph. it went on and on and on and on, that starstruck feeling, and from the first sentence, the firsttoss to me!he knew he was done for.(or: falling in love with bokuto koutarou is an easy task. dealing with it, however, is not.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello....
> 
> chapter 331 inspired this entirely. major spoilers for that chapter if you're not a manga reader, but other than that, there isn't much spoilers for chapters beyond that.
> 
> idk what can i say. i wanted to write about bokuaka falling in love with each other.
> 
> (tw for some abuse mentions and occurrences all throughout the story. i gave akaashi and bokuto some not-so-nice parents.)

In the shower the world is muffled. 

He hears the faint words of his parents — they have always spoken softly, like him, but firmly, and loud enough for him to hear what they're really saying about him — through the sound of the shower beating against his skin. He reaches down to turn the heat up; it's already all the way up, but if he pretends hard enough, the useless jerk of the handle makes it warmer.  He cups his hands under the spray, letting them fill up with scalding hot water, then closes his eyes and splashes it across his face. His ears fill up with water, drowning out the outside noise a little more.

The world is a little more dulled, and ironically, he finds himself focusing more on his surroundings. He stares at the small stain on the tiled wall, furiously scrubbed over and over by his mother but never relenting. He picks up the body wash bottle and reads the instructions on the back of it several times over. He switches his position a few times before settling on facing the shower head-on. When the shower starts to get too cold for his liking, he gives it another useless jerk, but even his overactive imagination can't make it any hotter.  

He decides it's probably time to get out. He doesn't want to, and spends another few seconds just staring blankly ahead of him, letting the water run over his body, but he hears footsteps clacking against the floor outside the bathroom, and the impending doom of an upcoming scolding motivates him enough to reach forward and turn the shower off. The following cold air is like a slap across the face, and he shivers, but he slides the curtains aside and wraps the towel around himself before stepping out.

The mirror is fogged up from the heat, and he stares at his muted reflection for a few long moments. Without a clear image, he can't see himself, and he pretends he doesn't exist for a moment. In this moment, he is just someone's reflection, and he's not himself, standing in his bathroom with a grip so tight on his towel that his knuckles are white, hand trembling from the strength. Breathing in deeply, catching it his throat and not quite making it all the way to the deep portion of his lungs, he wipes away the steam from the mirror with one hand, and meets the fiend on the other side.

Green eyes blink back at him, then the person on the other side furrows their eyebrows, takes their hand away from the mirror, and reaches for the unfamiliar uniform. The tie slides to the ground.

 

* * *

 

He's smart. He knows this much, because he has to be.

His entrance exam scores were great, but not perfect — a stray mark or two, maybe a wrong question here and there. His parents had looked at the results and then thrown them back in his face.  Fukurodani was not known for any sort of extraordinary academic excellence, but that was not what he had looked at. 

(A star flying through the sky and the cheers screaming their name was what captured his attention. His old teammates from middle school had watched him and laughed but there was something in his heart that he had never felt before. There was something in his heart that told him volleyball was more than just an escape.)

He's sitting in his very first class, around peers who look just as out of place as him, and he already knows what his teacher is talking about. There's someone behind him who keeps making confused and frantic noises, and his eye twitches in annoyance, but he doesn't say anything. His throat feels too dry to try and even open his mouth.  Introducing himself in front of class was about the enough amount of communication he needed today.

He drowns out his teacher's voice, not intentionally, and instead his mind drifts off to focus on everything else going on the classroom. There's a girl sitting near the window who is texting by hiding her phone underneath her desk. Another girl is bouncing her leg up and down nervously, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. A boy in the back of the classroom is mumbling to himself every word he writes down, and when he pauses in between each word, he lifts his hand to his mouth and bites down on his nail so hard a resounding  _clack_  echoes through the room.  

He doesn't realize that he himself has started to twirl his pencil in his fingers until a girl beside him glares at him for the sound it makes every time it hits the desk. He stops doing it upon sight of the glare, and then grimaces to himself, because now his hands are twitching with the urge to do something — to move them, curl them, snap them, tap them against the nearest hard surface. He eventually settles for bringing both of his hands on top of the desk and playing with his fingers as discreetly as possible. His notebook goes untouched, empty.

The next few classes cycle on rather slow. Each teacher he meets seem to all be the same. With every passing period, he bides his time by twirling his pencil around in his fingers, the static in his ears drowning out the sound of chattering students and excitable conversation. He's anxious — not for school, but what awaits for him afterwards. He pretends that it's not the uncomfortable, weird feeling of the uniform fabric against his skin, but rather a loose practice shirt. He pretends that he can hear the squeak of his shoes against a gym floor. He pretends that it's not a pencil he's twirling in his hand, but a volleyball, rolling across his palms and bouncing against his hands. 

_Ugh._

He has a headache.

 

* * *

 

His mother makes his lunch every day.

She always emphasizes the importance of a good meal, because it's supposed to give you brain power, or something. He's expected to eat three full meals a day, no junk food, and plenty of water to keep his body and brain running smoothly. He doesn't exactly argue with it — he knows it's healthy, and he has to keep his body strong for sports, but there are some days where he stares at the plate of food his parents have prepared and he just wants to chuck it into the nearest trash can.

(She doesn't make it just because she's his mother. No . . . it's never that simple of a reason.)

Today is one of those days. His stomach rumbles, but his heart in his throat and he isn't sure he can even try to open his mouth. He glowers at the sight of the carefully-prepared box, holding his chopsticks between his fingers with a tense grip. He knows he has to eat, has to be strong for what comes after school, but here he is, just staring. He averts his gaze from the box, thinking that watching other people eat will make him want to eat, too. Most people in his class are sitting with friends, their desks turned around to face one another.  Some are even sharing lunches. One girl has brought a box for one of her friends.

He knows he has little friends. He's not shy, not by any means, he's just quiet. In middle school, he had friends, but none of them ever extended past school grounds. He was closest to those he played volleyball with, but even then, he never was allowed to hang out with them outside of school or sporting events. Now, in high school, a place completely new, he's out of place, and he has to begin the cycle all over again. 

(There's at least one person he recognizes from his middle school, but even when they locked eyes, neither of them said a word to each other.)

He's distracted himself enough that when he takes a bite from his lunch, he doesn't even recoil. It motivates him enough to finish the rest of it very quickly (his father always mocked him for that; once he started eating, he never wanted to stop, and if his mother were here, she'd scold him for how improperly he always shoved his food down his throat). Still chewing the massive amount of food in his mouth, he closes his box and puts it back in his bag. When he swallows, his throat gets a little sore from the force of it.  

He still could eat more, but he tries to keep himself from thinking of food, and instead takes out his notebook and starts to absentmindedly doodle on the margins of the page. Some of the lines of the sketches overlap the notes written, but he pays no mind to it.  He sketches a volleyball or two, and a pair of hands spiking one over a net . . . a pair of arms . . . a familiar volleyball uniform, an exuberant grin, a—

_Ah._

He quickly erases the doodles with his eraser. 

That's embarrassing.

 

* * *

 

He becomes more twitchy towards the end of cleaning time. He's barely able to focus as he smacks two blackboard erasers together outside the window. He coughs when some of the dust flies into his mouth

When he's finally dismissed, it takes everything in him to not run into the gym where the volleyball team practices. He can hear his parents' voices in the back of his head —  _you should spend more time at cram school than at some stupid sport_  — but he pushes down the guilt and picks at his fingers when the sound of slamming balls drowns out everything else.

Once he enters, he changes into his practice clothes, and lines up with the other first years. The clamoring volleyball players are chatting eagerly among themselves, some poking fun at the newbies, and eventually he goes to introduce himself.

"I'm Akaashi Keiji, from Mori Middle School. I played setter. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

It's the first day, and there isn't much for him to do. While he's picking up some fallen volleyballs and putting them back in the basket, a tall figure nervously starts to make their way towards him, rocking back and forth on their heels, shifting their weight side to side.  

"Hey, uh, Akashi- _kun._  "

He looks up, ready to correct them, and he stops in his tracks when his eyes meet a pair of gold ones. There's an anxious expression on his face, but it leads into an eager smile. Bokuto Koutarou puts his hands behind his back and leans towards him.

Then, he remembers that he has to correct him. "It's Akaashi," he manages, surprising himself, with a steady tone. All he can think of is the way this boy played volleyball, with such an exuberant demeanor, such jubilant shouts, such love for the sport.

Bokuto tilts his head and asks, "Could you please help me practice spikes for just a little bit?"

One of the upperclassmen behind him looks a little alarmed, but he pays it no mind, and agrees.  

( _Practice with a star,_  he thinks.)

 

* * *

 

Practice with a star is incredibly _draining._

What part of this is  _a little bit?_  He's hunched over, panting so hard he can feel his chest burning, and sweat is dripping off his forehead like a waterfall. He barely gets the words _Nice kill_  out before he breaks into a cough.

" _Akashi!_  "

"It's Akaashi . . . "

"Your tosses are the best!"

He whips his head up so hard he hears his neck crack. Bokuto's smile is so big and bright his eyes are crinkled, and there's no trace of a lie, no trace of some underlying meaning behind the compliment. Bokuto says it with such delight that it takes him aback, and he stands there, staring with disbelieving eyes.  

He's used to backhanded compliments from his parents, or false words only meant to make him try harder. He's used to straight-up insults, and criticisms, always implying that he's not doing enough, or that he's not up to his full potential.

To be so directly praised by someone, especially by a star player, makes his chest burn with something other than exhaustion.

"Ah, sure," he says, because he doesn't know what  _else_  to say.  

"Could you sound a little more fired up . . . "

 

* * *

 

The next day, he discovers that the second day of school is always better than the first.

"Hey, if you ever need a break from Bokuto, just say the word!" says one of the upperclassmen when he visits him at his homeroom. "I won't swap places with you, but I'll help you think of excuses!"

"Aw," laughs one of the other players,  _Sarukui_ , he thinks, "you're not even gonna swap out for him?"

He feels almost offended that they would think he would  _want_  to swap out. From their words, it's like he's been  _chosen_  by Bokuto. 

"Swap places" . . .

"Ah, I'm okay," he says, trying not to sound too quick, "it's fun for me to be able to practice with a star player."

"A  _what_  player?'

"Is this one a weirdo too?"

 

* * *

 

His parents are home this time when he arrives from practice. He doesn't realize he's smiling until his father says something about it. The smile gets wiped away quickly when he says  _you should go get started on your studies, so you're not behind when exam season rolls around._

He wants to say,  _it's only the second day,_  but he bites his tongue, and nods. Defying his parents is something he could never do. Even ignoring his homework for a second drills him with unimaginable guilt.

He goes upstairs, changes into comfortable clothes, and pulls his notebook onto his desk. When he opens up to the first page, he sees the remains of the doodles he had erased away, the faint pencil markings still there — not all the way gone, like the stain in the shower wall. He can see the volleyballs, and the hands, and the arms . . .

He had been drawing Bokuto. Of course.

He remembers the feeling of tossing the volleyball into the air, the air that rushed through his hands when it left his fingertips. He remembers the gust of wind from Bokuto running up to spike it, jumping impossibly high, and slamming it down with a thundering smack that chilled him all the way down to his bones. And this was just the first.  Each toss, each following spike, never relented in its intensity. Each one was met with the most power possible, and Bokuto never backed down. He seemed to never tire, never get bored, never get frustrated with the way he was tossing. Every time the ball made contact with the other side, Bokuto would whirl around, whoop loudly into the air, and scream  _Nice kill!_

The old sketches seem to stare up back at him. He had never felt so . . .  _enthusiastic_ towards volleyball before this. It was a sport to avoid cram school, to avoid spending too much time at home.  Joining a club was something every other kid did, and since he was a middle schooler, his parents relented without much fuss (but, boy, did they fuss).  

He's in high school now. A first-year. It's the wrong time to fall in love with something that cannot be permanent. It's something that can't last. He has his grades to worry about.

Still . . . he finds himself smiling again as his pencil starts to trace over the faded sketch marks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably slow updates.... i am a college student :(
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not emposing!"
> 
> " _Im-_ pose."
> 
> "That's what I said!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i'm doing as much research as possible to try and keep things correct when it comes to the logistics of japanese high schools. i am not, in fact, japanese, so if i ever get anything wrong, please let me know.)

When he walks into the kitchen his parents are already gone, and there is a note on the counter that tells him his lunch is in the refrigerator. There is no _Have a good day at school!_ There is no  _I made it with love!_  There's only the single dry sentence, and he finds himself staring at the telltale sight of his mother's brittle handwriting for several moments.

He opens the fridge, and skims the rows before his eyes settle on the box on the very bottom. His stomach grumbles with the prospect of breakfast, but it also churns at the thought. He pauses, his hand hovering over the box, leaning forward until his back starts to get sore.  He picks up the box and closes the fridge without taking a second glance back at it.

This time, when he slides on his jacket, it is not as heavy as it felt the day before. He feels lighter, and he rolls his shoulders a few times to try and test the lack of tension. He squints suspiciously, thankful that he's home alone like this to behave as weird as he wants about this. Picking up his bag is not as intense of a task it had been yesterday.  He's alone, in this dark, quiet house, but the brewing silence does not strike his heart with anxiety. He feels . . .  _antsy._  There is an odd feeling of anticipation rising in his heart, but for the life of him, he can't place it anywhere, can't think of any reason.

He grips his bag a little tighter.  _Volleyball,_  maybe? Anticipation to play again? His fingers twitch against the strap he slings more firmly over his shoulders. He rubs the pads of his fingers against the texture of it and checks the time. For some reason, as eager as he is, it takes a moment for him to actually move to step out the door. He manages his shoes and runs a quick hand through his hair (as if it would do anything), but he stares at the front door for longer than necessary.

He's never felt like this before, and it both bothers and excites him.

Taking a deep breath, he taps his toes against the floor to tighten his shoe, and flexes his hand over the doorknob before forcing himself to push it open.

 

* * *

 

He finds himself shocked by the force of the wind when he walks outside that day, and upon arriving to the train station, his second train is delayed because of branches blown haphazardly onto the tracks. 

So he sits on the bench at his second stop, trying to figure out his options. It's a bit far even with the train, and he walks over to the nearby map to try and see if there is another train he could take that would lead him somewhere to take a third. A roundabout way, but he does not know how to ride a bike (and it would be unsafe to even attempt one in this weather), and Fukurodani is too far to just walk.  

To his surprise, there's a different train that stops just around five minutes from Fukurodani. He tries not to grin too hard.

"Akashi- _kun!_  "

His grin falls at the sound of the familiar voice, and he almost doesn't turn around for a moment. "It's Akaashi . . . " he corrects, purely on instinct, and his voice dies out when he finally spins around to see Bokuto, of all people.

"Right, right, sorry," Bokuto replies sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. "I didn't know you took this train!"

He bites the inside of his cheek. "I don't . . . My usual one got delayed. I would be at school by now."

"Ah . . . I see." There's a pause, a silence between them somewhere in the middle of awkward and calm. "Well," Bokuto then goes, like he's had an epiphany, "you can ride with me!"

He tilts his head.

"I'll walk you to school like a good upperclassman!" Bokuto puffs his chest out and puts his hands on his hips, suddenly very proud of himself. He's all but  _glowing,_  and very noticeable in the busy train station. 

He realizes, just then, how much attention is being drawn to the two of them, and tries not to make his discomfort too obvious. He's excited, but also on edge, and he finds it difficult to differentiate the anxiety between the two. Nonetheless, he just gives a small nod, and Bokuto starts talking like he's noticed nothing.

There are eyes all over them, because Bokuto is bright and loud and his hair is strange and looks so soft when it sticks up every which way, and his hands twitch with the urge to reach up and rake his fingers through it. He wants to feel the softness for himself, confirm his theory, or maybe prove it wrong, and squeeze the crunchiness between his fingertips. He wants to feel texture on his hands, feel it with every sense in his skin.  

He doesn't, though, and goes back to rubbing the pads of his fingers over his school bag.

The train comes, and when it blows by it makes the wind so much more intense that he almost stumbles right into Bokuto. He manages to keep his ground, even if he wobbles a bit. Bokuto looks unfazed, still talking, and he feels bad for not listening but can't help but notice how  _sturdy_  Bokuto seems to be.

He's so distracted, and this is so unlike him. He almost misses his step when he walks onto the train.

It's not very crowded, but he prefers standing anyway. Bokuto reaches up to grab one of the handles, and he does the same, but his eyes trail up to Bokuto's bicep, to his forearm, to the flexing of his fingers over the handle. His grip is loose, but even with the train chugging along, he doesn't stumble, or even move in the slightest. It's like the weight of Bokuto himself is just what keeps him there — the pure strength of it all.

He doesn't realize he's staring, unabashedly, until Bokuto looks at him with those golden eyes and tilts his head. It reminds him of an owl.

"Hm? Akaashi?"

He says his name right this time, but the suffix is dropped. He furrows his eyebrows, and says, "What?"

"Were you even listening?"

Oops. " . . . No."

" _Akaashi!_  "

"Sorry."

Instead of getting angry or anything of that sort, Bokuto just tosses his head back and groans. "It's okay . . . That story wasn't  _too_  interesting. Oh! Wait! I just thought of another one!" Like nothing just happened, Bokuto lifts a hand to gesture towards him.  "Okay. Get this. I have this friend — his name is Kuroo, he's kind of stupid but also really smart? It's unfair — anyway, one day, I'm over at his house, and he's  _really_  in the mood for a hard-boiled egg. But he says he doesn't  _have_  any. So he goes into the fridge, takes out some eggs, and fills up a cup with hot water—"

He can already tell where this is going, but this time, instead of tuning Bokuto out, he finds himself completely at mercy to his storytelling. It's a dumb story, most likely with a dumb ending, but the way he  _animates_  himself with his body movements and twists of his hands and fingers, emphasizing and punctuating every word with something . . . he turns the most boring of details into something belonging to the  _Iliad._  

"—he puts it into the microwave, and leaves it in there for, like . . . um . . . five minutes? No, maybe, like, three? Whatever, it's a few minutes. And we're both sitting there in front of the microwave, super excited for these hard-boiled eggs, feeling like we just hacked life itself—"

It's such a riveting tale; he  _has_  to know what happens next.

"—then everything just explodes!  _Boom!_  Eggs all over the inside of the fucking microwave!" There's an older-looking woman who glares at him, and Bokuto puts a hand over his mouth with a hangdog look.  "Oops.  _Freaking_  microwave," he corrects, then goes on. "So I'm basically  _crying_  on the floor, and Kuroo is  _freaking_  out because his mom is coming home in a few hours and he has no idea how he's going to clean  _all_  this up in that much time! He opens the microwave and steam just comes  _pouring_  out. The cup he put the eggs in was plastic and partly-melted!"  For a moment, he stumbles over the word  _melted,_  and says it wrong at least three times before finally managing the vowels correctly. "He picks up the cup with oven mitts and dumps all the eggs into the sink, and they don't crack! For a second, he thinks he just hard-boiled eggs in a microwave, and we're all cheering and laughing and ignoring the impending doom that is Kuroo's mother."

He feels like there's another aspect to the story. He raises his eyebrows, pressing further.

Bokuto lets out a loud laugh, and grins. "Turns out the eggs he used were already hard-boiled in the first place."

He has to physically hold himself in place to keep from laughing out loud. The giggles he wants to release are bubbling at the bottom of his throat, and he tries exhaling sharply through his nose to satisfy them. It's hilarious. It's one of the funniest stories he's ever been told.  

"Sorry," Bokuto suddenly says, looking shameful. "Didn't mean to bore you."

"No," he says instantly, then pauses at the force of his voice. "I mean . . . no. It wasn't boring. Your friend sounds like a fun guy."  _It could never be boring being with Bokuto Koutarou,_  he thinks, and nods to himself to confirm it.

"Yeah," Bokuto then sighs wistfully, his mood changing in an instant. "I don't see him a lot because of how busy I am with volleyball. He plays volleyball too, but I'm going to be one of the best!"

He thinks Bokuto is already one of the best, but manages to keep his mouth shut this time. Bokuto is talking again, not giving him a chance to say anything, but it's not like he could think of something worthy to say, anyway. He discovers that Bokuto's voice is very calming, and easy to get drawn into. Bokuto himself is just a beacon of light — something that others are drawn into instantly, whether they realize it or not. There are people all over the train who are watching him, or just looking in his general direction, either with amazed or confused looks. 

Bokuto abruptly stops talking when the train comes to a stop. "Oh, we're here! That was faster than usual!" As they step off the train and make their way through the large cluster of people, Bokuto looks over at him and smiles again. "Probably because I had someone with me this time."

"Do you usually ride the train alone?" he asks curiously.

"Yeah," Bokuto replies, shrugging.

He rides the train alone, too, hiding in the corner and out of sight from everyone else, but hearing that Bokuto Koutarou, a real-life fallen star, is alone every morning on the way to school bothers him in more ways than one. He then remembers what his own teammates said about him —  _If you ever need a break from Bokuto, just say the word! I won't swap places with you, but I'll help you think of excuses_  — and frowns.

"Huh? What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?" 

He shakes his head, frowning deeper. "No," he says firmly. 

His reply only leads Bokuto to look even more confused, but he just shakes his head a second time, and starts to walk in the direction of his school.

"Wh—hey! Akashi! Wait up!"

"It's  _Akaashi._  "

 

* * *

 

Bokuto ends up walking with him all the way until he makes it to his homeroom. There are plenty of first-years marveling at them, and Bokuto draws all sorts of attention even when he's not raving very loudly about a volleyball tournament he watched online last night. Everyone is looking at Bokuto, then at him, then back at Bokuto. A second-year being friends with a first-year isn't something uncommon, but it's still the beginning of the year, and someone who has been in high school longer than them would be—

. . .

_Friends?_

His train of thought surprises him so much that he almost halts in place. He tries to ignore the pounding of his heart and the pulsing of his veins. He tries to ignore his racing mind — what would his  _parents_  think? — and he tries to tell himself,  _no, that's cruel to think that, stop thinking that—_

"Wow . . . you must be smart."

He turns to see Bokuto staring at his class number, and he takes a glance inside his homeroom to see other students milling about and joking with one another. There are people sitting on top of desks, swinging their legs back and forth. There's one girl that tosses her head back when she laughs, so hard that part of her ponytail comes undone. There's a group of boys all looking at something on the center boy's phone, and they're whispering, borderline giggling.

(He looks at his own desk. There is nobody around it.)

Then he looks back up at Bokuto.

"I suppose."

(He'd like to be his friend.)

 

* * *

 

(He remembers telling his middle school friends that he didn't want to get close to them. It wasn't the truth, but not exactly a lie. His parents had orchestrated the whole of his words, but they weren't filled with just their intentions.  _I don't want a friend,_  he remembers saying, because he didn't want anyone close enough to really see who he was.

A shell. A robot. A tool.

Akaashi Keiji.)

 

* * *

 

At lunch, his leg is bouncing, and he twirls his chopsticks in his hands as he stares down at his food. He's hungry, but he's spacing out, too distracted by today's events. He tries to focus, but his mind just drifts back to the image of Bokuto smiling so brightly at him, treating him like a friend he's known for years. He keeps thinking of the way his voice sounds when he's excited, when he's telling a story, and when he's embarrassed by a woman scolding him for swearing.

His stomach gives a grumble of protest and he finally shoves a piece of food into his mouth to sate it for a moment. The room is loud but everything sounds muffled in comparison to the sound of his heartbeat. He feels anxious, but he's also filled with this excitement he's never felt before. He had friends in middle school, but he never had ridden the train with any of them, or had been told silly stories moments upon being in the same vicinity. 

He feels a bit dumb, and he knows his parents would tell him as such, but he wants to be Bokuto's friend. He wants to be close to him. He wants to bathe himself in the light Bokuto emanates. He wants the other team members in his volleyball team to look at him and engage with him.

He doesn't want to go to any stupid cram school, or study for tests all night long. He wants to feel the sharp tingle on his forearms from a volleyball. He wants to see the redness it creates. He wants to feel all of his hairs standing on end, and his feet protesting from all the running and diving and turning.

The classroom is filled with such ambient chatter that he wants to be part of it. He wants to _talk._  Open his mouth and laugh at stupid jokes, so hard until he's snorting like he always does. He doesn't want to feel like a fool for having  _emotions_  anymore.

(He just wants to be a high schooler, not an _Akaashi._  )

But he's always been kind of a coward. So he just looks back down at his box and keeps eating.

 

* * *

 

He actually gets to play this time.

The captain separates the team into two groups of five, and he ends up being paired against Bokuto. The players on Bokuto's team are all joking around about having to play with him, but he sees it as more of an honor. Sure, he's tiring, and he can still feel the soreness in his shoulders from every set, but Bokuto's playing is incredible. 

They may kid, but he's a necessity to Fukurodani.

Bokuto is laughing with them, but at one comment about something called his depressive mode, he starts whining in protest and waving his arms around. Then, the coach blows his whistle, and Bokuto shifts into something else entirely.

It's one thing when you are watching on the sidelines. It's another thing when it's just you setting — one on one.

This . . . this is  _otherworldly._  He watches as Bokuto's eyes go sharp, almost like they're  _glowing,_  and his whole demeanor changes. He's still the same, but . . . different. It's like his energy has been enhanced tenfold, and he feels a shudder go down his spine when those eyes center right on him. His teammates are all of similar attitude, but nothing compares to the shift their star player just did. It's like there's a spotlight on him, and even if he's just a second year, just a wing spiker, he's a force to be reckoned with. He's an owl, a bird of prey, tall and elegant with piercing eyes, ready to snatch its prey at any moment. If he tries hard enough, he can see the horns, and his hair turns to feathers and his arms turn to wings and his fingers turn to talons. He feels like if he gets close enough, he'll get slashed.

(He dares to try it.)

Seeing him in person like this, being the one facing him, is something he couldn't have ever expected. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment.

Bokuto rolls his shoulders, and flexes his fingers, and it's at this moment he realizes that there are some people just  _meant_  to play volleyball. 

The volleyball goes up in the air, and the owl takes off.

 

* * *

 

It's coming to the end of volleyball practice when he gets it.

 

[  _17:38_  ] Mom: Where are you

 

He stares at the notification on his screen until it goes black. Then, he unlocks it, taps his messenger app, and continues staring at the text. She should know where she is, and she is usually at work around this time. She rarely ever texts him, unless she really needs him, or there is something wrong.

He bites the inside of his cheek worriedly.

 

[  _17:40_  ] Volleyball practice.

[  _17:40_  ] Is something wrong ?

 

He sits on the bench and places his phone facedown. A few minutes go by and there's no reply. 

Bokuto comes running up to him, sweaty and panting. He runs a hand through his hair and it goes flat for a second with the force of his palm but sticks right back up when it's gone. He wonders if it's natural.

"Hey!" Bokuto greets. "Why're you sitting over here all by yourself?"

 _A loaded question,_  he thinks. "Waiting for my mom to reply."

"Oh!" Bokuto nods like he just answered a very important inquiry. "Is she picking you up or something?"

"I take the train home," he replies, and checks his phone again — still nothing, "but . . . she doesn't text me unless it's something important . . . "

Bokuto tilts his head. "If it's something important, you should go home."

"Huh?"

"Oh, don't take that as me kicking you out!" he elaborates quickly. "It's great having you here. You're amazing! But I can cover for you if you need to leave. Seriously!"

He doesn't know what to say to that. "You'd do that?"

"Of course!"

 _Of course,_  he says, like it's something common.  _Of course,_  he says, like he should know. 

"Oh . . . " His mother still hasn't replied. He's sure it's nothing, just her being weird, but his leg is bouncing without him noticing, and he's picking at one finger with his other hand. "Alright. If you're sure. I wouldn't want to impose."

"You're not emposing!"

" _Im-_ pose."

"That's what I said!"

Now he's actually smiling. "Thank you, Bokuto _-san._  "

"No problem!" Bokuto grins at him, his cheeks flushing with joy. "See you tomorrow, Akaashi!"

With that, he runs off, immediately picking up a volleyball and spiking it into the back of one of his unsuspecting teammate's heads. Said teammate promptly screams, whirls around, and starts to chase Bokuto around the court. Both the captain and the coach are yelling at them, but they ignore every order directed their way.

_See you tomorrow!_

It replays in his head over and over as he walks out, and keeps echoing like Bokuto's still right in front of him.

 

* * *

 

On the train, there is no reply. 

On the walk back to his house, there is no reply.

Upon walking into his home, his mother is sitting at the table, going through a document with a pen and making marks here and there. She doesn't look up when he comes in, but he stands in the doorway for a few moments, glancing around the area and trying to assess if there is any real situation, any real problem.

"Close the door, Keiji," his mother scolds, looking up finally, "you're blowing away all my papers."

"Sorry," he says, and steps inside. He takes off his shoes and takes out his phone. "Why did you text me?"

"Do I need an  _excuse_  to know where my son is?" 

" . . . No. I was just wondering."

She narrows her eyes at him, and makes a point of burying her face back into her documents. The scratching of her pen against paper is loud in the silent room. "I just want to keep you where I can see you," is her reply. "I think you're wasting your time with that club of yours. You didn't even like it in middle school."

He swallows thickly, and doesn't say anything to that.

When he doesn't move, his mother looks up at him again, raising her eyebrow as if daring him to speak out against her. He won't take the bait, won't end up being punished, but _god,_  he wants to. He wants to say everything on his mind.

But this is his mother.

"It's . . . " He takes a moment to choose his words carefully. "It's different than it was in middle school."

His mother shifts in her seat, displeased. "Mm." After a moment, "Dinner's on the counter. Go up to your room and study a bit before bed."

He lowers his head, and nods.

"Yes, Mom."

 

* * *

 

The next day, when he sees Bokuto at the train station, he tries not to get defensive at his shit-eating grin.

"Did your train get delayed again?"

The skies are clear. There is no wind and the sun beams down on the both of them.

"Yes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bokuto's not THAT scary, akaashi. you're just gay.
> 
> (the egg story is a true story. replace kuroo with my brother and bokuto with me.)
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can hear the telltale yelling of his new friend coming down the hall to each with him, because that's a thing now, whether he likes it or not.
> 
> (He likes it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit more focused on the parents. please be careful when reading this. 
> 
> also warnings for descriptions of being sick and a ... weirdly long conversation about vomiting? it's meant to be funny. you know how bokuto is.

He's good at volleyball.

It started as a way to pass the time, to waste time whenever his homework was done but his parents still insisted that he go do something productive. But then he started to spend more and more time, until when he was writing his name on a paper, all he could feel was the sting of his palms when he wrapped his fingers around a pencil.

He feels it now, taking notes in his class. His teacher scribbles on the board and he hates the sound it makes, and each scrape of chalk against blackboard snaps him back into reality, away from his daydream world. Even when he's focusing, he can hear his upperclassmen's voices —  _we should let Akaashi practice more with the more experienced players_ — and a feeling of glee runs through him. He writes down his notes even quicker. The girl sitting next to him gives him a weird look.

As he writes, his glee starts to melt into something else. He looks down at his notes, processes them, and realizes just what exactly he's writing. He's taking notes for a future test. He's taking notes for his future.

He's distracted.

Glee turns to dread, and his breath catches in his throat. His hand stops in place for a moment, right on the end of a word. His teacher keeps talking, but now it's drowned out by the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. He's vaguely aware of his legs starting to bounce. 

( _Distraction . . ._  )

He can't be distracted. He's spending more time worrying about volleyball than his studies. He thinks of his mother's face the other day when he came home upon her urging. He thinks of his father's  _horrible_  scowl — the one he always gives whenever he's disappointed about something (and one that is almost always directed towards his child). He realizes in just how much his life has changed in just the short time he's been in high school. He has already changed up his morning schedule just to hang out with his new friend. He spends his off time thinking about volleyball, rather than studying, like he used to.

He is an _Akaashi._  He was raised to be  _smart._  And here he is . . . disappointing his entire family.

He bites his bottom lip nervously, and tries to tune back into the teacher's words. He tries to get his breathing back under control. He tries to  _not_  think about the feel of a volleyball against his palms when he flexes his hands. When he writes, his handwriting is shaky and his vision is unfocused. He swallows thickly and tries again, but soon realizes that he's missed a big chunk of notes from not paying attention. The teacher is on a whole new subject now. People are flipping to new pages in their notebooks.

He feels light-headed. He has half a mind to raise his hand and ask to go to the bathroom, or the nurse, or anywhere but here, but he feels suffocated. His throat is tight and he can't even open his mouth to breathe. Frustration boils in his blood.

Wordlessly, the girl who sits next to him pushes her notebook a little closer towards the edge of her desk, right in his line of sight.

 

* * *

 

At practice, when he doesn't smile back at Bokuto's grin, he's filled with incredible guilt. He feels attacked from all angles — one part of him wants to keep playing volleyball, and to keep getting better and better until he's at the top and he's thinking of nothing but victory. But another part of him is crushed, and trapped, by the shackles of his family's expectations. Volleyball is just a club. It was only ever meant to be something to pass the time. Something to get his mind off of studies for a few moments.

"Hey, 'kaashi! The captain said you get to practice with us today!"

(Volleyball is just a club.)

"I assume you want me to toss for you?"

(Volleyball is just a club.)

" . . . Yes?"

(Volleyball is just a club.)

"You don't have to say it like a question, Bokuto- _san._  "

(Volleyball is just a club.)

"Well . . . um, I was just making sure you can keep up with my spikes!"

( . . . )

"Hand me the ball."

(He really likes this club.)

 

* * *

 

He takes pride in the fact that he gets high grades, because he's been pampered and primed since the moment he opened his eyes to be the perfect son. He is the only one his parents have, so he has to be the best. If his parents cannot live vicariously through his success, then he's failed — not just as a son, but as a person.

For as long as he can remember, his entire existence and identity has been based around the fact of whether or not he could get into any school he wanted. If he could do anything, then he was worth something. He has always based his pride and self-worth on what he can do, and for so long, the list of what he couldn't do was slim.

But then he gets older. He learns what his parents really mean when they said those things to him. He learns the consequences of being a gifted child but a depressed teenager. His grades slip, and so do his importance.

He is fifteen, going on sixteen. He knows that if his first year does not go well here, and if his grades are not up to his parent's standards, he will be taken to a new school, one that his parents approve of. It was a miracle that they agreed to let him go to Fukurodani in the first place, but now he has to earn his place.

And he is being distracted by a stupid sport.

He doesn't look at his parents when he arrives home that night. He feels ashamed, and he feels his face reddening with said emotion when his father stops him with a hand on his shoulder. There is a few moments of cold silence, and then his father's grip slowly tightens, and he's turned around.

His father scrutinizes him, and then puts a hand on his forehead. "You're red. You aren't getting  _sick,_  are you?"

Had he said it with any other tone, he might have believed his father actually cared.

"I don't know," he says, and flinches when his father rips his hand away as if the touch burned.

"You _don't know?_  " his father questions, then clicks his tongue. "Take some medicine with dinner tonight."

He nods wordlessly, and takes the medicine from the cabinet above the counter. His mother, without turning around, pours some sort of stew from a pot on the stove into a bowl and hands it to him. He goes to sit at the table, and quietly bounces his leg from where he sits. The stew is still hot, but he shoves it into his mouth anyway.

His father walks up and drops a few pills and a glass of water in front of him. "Quit bouncing your leg, Keiji," he snaps.

"Sorry, Dad." He stops, but then takes to tapping his fingers against the table as he takes the pills. His father eyes him with annoyance, but doesn't say anything further.

"So," his mother suddenly speaks up, "how is that club of yours going?"

He almost chokes on his water, but manages to swallow it down. At the sound of his coughing, his parents turn to look at him, but when they see him take a breath, they both immediately turn back around. It would feel like a slap to the face, if he weren't already used to this. He takes another bite of stew, using the excuse that he's chewing to think about his answer for a few minutes.

"It's—"

"Swallow your food before you talk, Keiji. It's disgusting."

He did, and his mother isn't even looking at him to say otherwise, but he pauses a few minutes and makes a show of fake-swallowing. "It's . . . um."

"' _It's'?_  " she presses.

This is his chance. He can say it's boring, and be free of it forever. He can say he wants to quit, and then he'll be able to really focus on his studies. If he can just say it . . . everything can get back to normal. He can go back to the way he was in middle school.

Except his fingers start to tap louder on the surface, more nervously.

(He doesn't want to go back.)

"It's good," he says, and looks into his bowl so he doesn't have to face the disappointed face he knows they're wearing. "I'm having fun."

He can hear the silence in the air. He tries to distract himself by eating more of his stew, but eventually, he finishes it, and there's nothing left for him to do but twirl the spoon in his mouth. Half of his water goes untouched. He can hear the clacking of kitchen utensils as his mother starts to wash the dishes from dinner, and the noises keep getting louder and louder with her growing anger.

"I should make  _you_  do these, Keiji," she snaps.

He flinches, and pops the spoon out of his mouth. He doesn't dare to open his mouth and say anything. 

"Ungrateful brat, " she says, and it's rare that she so directly insults him like this. "We've done so much for you, and yet . . . " Then she sounds like she's going to cry, and his dread only runs deeper. "Do you hate us? Is that it?" She slams the rag into the soapy water and then smacks her palms against the counter surface.

"N-no!" he protests. "No. I don't."

"I just don't understand you! This club is stupid, and you told us it was just going to be a middle school thing."

His hands are shaking, and his legs are bouncing even more. If his father told him to stop now, there's no way he would be able to. "No—I—I have fun in it. It helps me focus. I-I promise I'm grateful for everything. You guys are amazing parents."

(His mouth feels dry.)

His mother calms down a little, and runs a hand through her hair. "We sacrifice a lot for you, Keiji. Do you know that?"

"I know."

"We've spent so much time making sure you can have the best."

"I know."

"We expect you to give back to us."

"I know."

His mother locks her jaw, and then after a few moments, picks out her rag from the sink and starts to wash again. When she's done washing each dish, she puts them all into the dishwasher, a routine he finds he'll never understand. He stands and takes his dishes to the sink, trying not to look at her face as he washes them under her watchful eye. She takes them when he's done, all but snatching them out of his grip, and fumbling with the buttons for a few moments before leaving the dishwasher to do its work.

She wipes her hands on a towel, and then slowly turns to face him.

"I'll allow you to stay in this  _club,_  " she says, and he hopes his excitement doesn't show on his face, "but the moment it starts to hinder your work, I'm banning  _all_  extracurricular activities. Understand?"

He knows full well that his parents would rather leave him locked in his room with a private tutor for the rest of his life, until he becomes rich and successful. Letting him attend public school, and be in a club, is a taste of freedom he never thought he would have.

"I understand, Mom."

"Good." She lets out a sigh, and starts to walk towards the office. "Go study for a bit before bed."

"Yes, Mom." 

When he's alone, he realizes he's smiling.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes the next day, he feels like death. 

He stares groggily at the ceiling above him, blinking a few times to get the sleepiness out of his gaze. Except, after several minutes, the fogginess doesn't go away, and when he tries to sit up, his stomach lurches with the movement, and he feels so weak that he ends up tumbling back down onto his bed.

He curses to himself under his breath, and tries again, slowly. His stomach gurgles and he feels sick to his stomach, and he has a suspicious feeling that it may be due to the fact that he took pills when he wasn't even sick.

Figures.

His head is spinning and there are stars everywhere, but it's a school day, and he can't afford to get behind now when he just got his parents' temporary acceptance of volleyball. He trudges along his room and fumbles for the door to his bathroom, and when he turns on the light he feels like vomiting. He manages to keep it down, after several seconds of holding himself up with the doorway of his bathroom. He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths before making his way to the sink. 

He gives a passing glance at his shower. If he tries to take one now, he thinks he'd die.

Instead, he decides to give himself a healthy amount of deodorant (the natural kind, because his mother is like that ), brushes his teeth, and tries to make his hair look presentable. His curls pretty much do what they want, but if he tries hard enough, he can get them to flatten a little more than usual.

(Both of his parents have straight, black hair. They say his hair comes from his father's side, but they still disapprove when he leaves it untamed.)

He puts on his uniform with some struggle. Now that he's more awake, he can finally stand up straight, but his world is still dizzy, and his head is pounding with every blink he takes. He sees stars behind his eyelids when he accidentally looks up at the blinding bathroom light. He slaps some color into his cheeks and splashes some water in his face, just so he looks alive.

He walks into the front room to see that his parents are out. His lunch is on the counter, with no note, no anything. He debates on whether to take it or not, but eventually decides on shoving it in his bag. The very idea of eating makes him want to hurl. He tries to block out the smell of food from the kitchen by plugging his nose and putting on his shoes as fast as he can. 

He leaves a little earlier than he means to, but the cool air outside helps with how hot his body feels. He feels like he can focus a little more when the wind blows on his face, and he manages to walk all the way to the train station without much trouble.

But Bokuto is a whole different story, and while he usually appreciates the distraction his new friend offers, every word that comes out of his mouth is like a barrage on his skull. His head is pounding, and he puts a hand to his forehead when he starts to feel lightheaded. The train is crowded, and warm, and too hot, and  _oh god,_  he thinks he might pass out—

"Bokuto- _san._  "

"—hm? Yeah?"

"Would you mind lowering your voice a bit?"

"Huh? Sure." Bokuto's eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, but then he actually looks at him, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Wait! What's wrong!?"

His voice has only grown  _louder,_  and he resists the urge to growl in frustration. "I have a headache."

"Oh!" Bokuto shouts, then, "I mean, _oh._  Sorry. Are you feeling sick?"

Bokuto's soft voice is not as bad. He finds he's never really heard it before, but he likes it. "I guess," he mumbles, trying to steady himself when the train stops to pick up more passengers.

"I have some pain killers in my bag! Do you want some?"

The thought of taking more pills disgusts him. It must show on his face, because when he makes a face, he then gags at the thought of it, stumbling forward and putting a hand over his mouth. Bokuto is immediately close, one hand on his back and the other on his arm. 

"Wh—Akaashi! Do you need to get off?"

Everywhere Bokuto touches is burning hot. "No," he says quickly. "No," he repeats again, straightening himself a little and shivering when Bokuto's hands leave his body. He can't miss a day of school. It's been a few weeks already, and his teachers are already getting into some of the hard stuff. "I took some pills yesterday and I . . . I think that's what gave me my headache."

"I think it's a bit more than a headache,  _Akashi._  "

"It's  _Akaashi._  And I'm fine."

Bokuto squints suspiciously. He looks very much like an owl.

"Well, if you're feeling sick, I'll help you."

"Help me?"

"Yeah! Like, pat your back while you're throwing up or something." Bokuto says this with a big smile, like he's not talking about something disgusting. "Unless you don't like being touched while you're throwing up. Then I'll just be off to the side cheering. Or—not cheering  _because_  you're throwing up, of course! Cheering because once you throw up, you feel better. And if you  _don't_  have to throw up, then I'll cheer anyway!"

He cannot believe this boy is real. He stands there, one hand over his throat, still slightly hunched over, eyeing Bokuto with a weird look.

"What's with the look!"

"You're very strange, Bokuto- _san._  "

"Says the one who came to school sick!"

"It's a  _headache._  "

"Whatever you say—" and the name that leaves Bokuto's mouth is some ungodly version of his own. He can't even be bothered to correct him this time, partly because he does not even know what Bokuto just said, and because his throat has started to tighten again.

(It's going to be a long day.)

 

* * *

 

His history teacher gives him a pop quiz.

He stares at it for several long moments before writing his name, and even that task renders him _over it._  He's vaguely aware that he's sweating, and that he probably looks awful with how his head is bobbing from exhaustion.

He doesn't want to do this quiz, even if from just a glance at the first question he knows that he knows every single question. His head hurts and he's tired and he wants to go home, except he doesn't want to go home, either. He picks up the pencil and angrily bubbles in each answer. One of the answers is an extended response so he scribbles down some bullshit that's sure to get at least an acceptable grade and turns his paper over.

He feels like he could just black out in his chair. He wants to, to be honest. Bokuto is right. He is sick, and he should have stayed home today.

(But then he would have missed the pop quiz, and his parents  _hate_  when he has to make things up, because that's subpar and he should  _always_  be on time for every single quiz and test and exam that there is.

Just missing school is a capital offense in the Akaashi household.)

 

* * *

 

He isn't sure how long he disassociates in his chair, but before he knows it, it's lunch time. He can hear the telltale yelling of his new friend coming down the hall to each with him, because that's a thing now, whether he likes it or not.

(He likes it.)

But today he just wants to crawl into his bed and hide in its darkness for several hours. When Bokuto sits in front of him with a smile and sets his lunch onto his desk, he can feel some of his worries wash away, but not all.

He slowly takes his lunch out of his bag and opens it, but the very smell of it makes him gag. He stares at it with a grimace for several minutes, as Bokuto devours all of his in one go. That's one thing he's discovered the two of them have in common: they both love food, and can eat it in a flash. Not today, apparently. His stomach doesn't even growl at the thought of eating.

When Bokuto's finished, he puts his box away and then folds his arms across his desk. He watches him not touch his food, not even once, and even raises his eyebrows when he sees him not daring to look at it.

"You  _are_  sick!"

"Would you keep your voice down?"

"Why didn't you just stay home? You need to rest!"

He pauses. There's no way Bokuto could know. How could he explain the expectations put on him? That he's put on himself?

"I . . . didn't want to have to make anything up," he goes with, and while it's the truth, a lot of things are omitted.

"Hm." Bokuto gives him a look that he doesn't quite understand. "Well! There's only one thing left to do."

He starts to stand, and puts the lid back on his box, picking up his bag and shoving it inside. He has a little compartment where he puts his lunch, every day, but Bokuto has just shoved it somewhere unknown. He opens his mouth to protest, but his stomach rolls as soon as he does, and he gags again, squeezing his eyes shut and groaning.

Bokuto slings his bag over his shoulder and holds out his arm for him to lean on. "I'm taking you to the nurse!"

He wants to protest, but he doesn't want to talk, for fear of actually vomiting, so he just lowers his head and steadies himself with Bokuto's arm as he rises from his chair. The nurse's office can't be that far, right?

 

* * *

 

It ends up being pretty far. As the walk continues, he ends up leaning further and further into Bokuto's arm until the other is all but supporting half his weight when they walk into the office.

The nurse is a kind-looking, older woman, and when she turns around to see the two she quite literally gasps. "What happened?"

"My friend here is pretty sick," Bokuto says, his voice too cheerful for the backstory, leading him into one of the spare beds, "so I brought him here to rest for a bit. Is that okay?"

"Oh, of course!" The nurse stands and walks over towards him, putting a hand over his forehead. As soon as she touches him, she gasps again. "You're burning up!" But she doesn't rip her hand away, and instead lifts it off gently as she rolls in her chair over to a cabinet.

Bokuto gives him a look that says _I told you so._

He rolls his eyes at him.

The nurse puts a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. "Would you like me to call your parents?" she asks.

"No," he replies, too quickly, and so abruptly that the nurse startles back for a moment. "They—they're working. I don't want to disturb them."

The nurse raises an eyebrow and gives him a look, but just nods. "Alright."

Bokuto then happily takes a seat in the chair right next to the bed. 

 _Huh?_  "What are you doing?" he asks, his eyes already feeling heavy from being off his feet.

Bokuto tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"You're . . . sitting."

"Astute observation, Akaashi," Bokuto then says, with a grin. "I'm staying with you! For as long as I can, anyway."

He's floored. ". . . You don't have to do that."

"I don't mind."

He wants to pull the towel further over his face to hide his expression. "But why?"

At his question, Bokuto looks honestly taken aback, and confused. "Why wouldn't I?" he asks back, with the utmost sincerity.

He's not allowed to be sick, and even when he breaks that rule, nobody has ever bothered to stay with him while he tries to rest. This time, he really does reach up and pull the towel over his reddening face. "You're weird," he ends up mumbling, embarrassed.

Bokuto just grins, or at least he thinks he does, from what little he can see through the towel. "That's what friends are for!"

He drifts off to sleep with the sound of Bokuto's foot tapping against the floor, and dreams of gold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't take pills when you don't need them, folks.
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Really?" Bokuto gives him a genuinely shocked look. "When I first met you I thought I was annoying you."
> 
> "I just have that kind of face."
> 
> "I don't think you do."
> 
> "No, trust me. I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BOKUAKA DAY!
> 
> (itty bitty mention of transphobia in the first section. like it's literally so small. i promise that will be the most it's involved.)

If there's one thing he's always been good at, it's observing.

His eyes scan the area and settle on one thing at a time — be it a person or just a random object. His mind will cycle through and give him all available information he can pick up from the single observation, and then he'll move onto the next, forgetting it in a split second.

However . . . with Bokuto, it's hard to forget.

When Bokuto is around, he exudes a presence that forces one's eyes towards him. He's so bright and so memorable that it is nearly impossible to forget his existence. Even when he is away, he is always there in the back of one's mind. Bokuto Koutarou is a force of nature, one not easily swept aside, but he finds it foolish that anyone would even want to.

(He wonders how many people have come into contact with him — the boy who feels like the personification of a lightning strike — and how many have been left with his effect. Like they have been struck, and they walk away rumbling like thunder.)

At the moment, Bokuto is not saying much at all. But his motions, his body language, the way he merely carries himself in his seat brings all attention to him. His eyes are unable to focus anywhere but him. His food is long finished, but he notes that Bokuto is a slow eater. Right now, at least. 

He savors it. His fingers twirl his chopsticks around with an expertise that looks long-practiced. They slide over each of his fingers and immediately snap back into the correct place when he's done chewing, and he takes another bite only to return to the same process over again. The hand he isn't holding his chopsticks with is propped up on the desk by the elbow, and his thumb nail rubs against the pad of his index finger in a circular motion. When he goes to take another bite this time, his tongue rolls out a little and his teeth bite against the end of the chopsticks. His leg bounces in an uneven rhythm, and it switches back and forth between his right and left legs — sometimes both at the same time. His tongue comes out to lick against the corner of his mouth, and then he lifts his free hand to wipe at it.

Then, Bokuto suddenly slams his fist against the desk, startling him and the other people sitting near him. He looks as if he's having a moment of clarity. "Oh!" he exclaims around a mouthful of food. He tries to say more, but coughs a little and puts a hand up, furiously chewing so he can get his words through faster.

He just watches, an eyebrow raised.

Bokuto swallows, harshly, then groans and taps at his throat. He lets out a little burp, a tiny  _excuse me,_  and then grins at him like it never happened. "I forgot! Something happened today and I wanted to tell you about it."

He then goes off on a tangent — he's telling a story about something that happened in class, where he answered a question correctly and even his teacher was surprised, or something along those lines — but he can only focus on the words _I wanted to tell you about it._ They repeat in his head over and over, drowning out Bokuto's words, no matter how compelling they may be. With sound gone, he goes to  _really_  look at him instead, and  _observe._

When Bokuto talks, he performs. It's similar to his appearance on the court. He moves, sharply and quickly, and makes grand gestures to emphasize even the tiniest things. He makes the most boring story feel like an epic. He'll swipe his arms across his chest and above his head and grab onto both him and whoever he's talking to. He laughs at something in the story, and leans back so quickly he almost topples over, then takes a deep breath and goes back to his story instantly. His mind moves too fast for his mouth to keep up, so he stumbles over his words. Bokuto says something the wrong way, stops, repeats what he said, then makes a little noise before continuing on with his story. He says several things wrong, and forgets words, and often pauses in between sentences like he's forgotten what to say, but it is one of the most endearing things about him. In the middle of his story, he breaks off to explain who someone is, or talk about something he did that morning, then finish it off with an  _anyway,_  and return back to the topic at hand. When he talks, he brings in everyone who isn't even part of the conversation into his story.

(Keiji feels like he could listen to him forever.)

Bokuto finishes off his tale with a flourish, and then pushes a hand through his hair when a single strand falls in front of his eyes. He wonders, not for the first time, if it sticks up naturally or if he uses a sort of gel or hairspray.

" . . . and like, in the end, everyone was  _really_  impressed. I think I gained like  _five_  popularity points today."

He doesn't want to just leave him hanging, not when he wanted to tell him this. That would be cruel. So, he leans against his desk, props up his chin with his hand, and smiles a little. "I'm sure you did," he says, then blurts out, "You tell stories like you play volleyball."

Bokuto blinks at him. "Huh? How?"

Ah. He hadn't meant to say that. Well.

"Like a thunderstorm." 

"A thunderstorm?"

"Mm-hmm."

Bokuto furrows his eyebrows a little, looking confused, but he doesn't protest the simile. Rather, he  _embraces_  it, and puffs out his chest a little. "You say the coolest things sometimes, Akaashi."

He almost laughs at that.  _Him? Cool?_  Bokuto Koutarou is the shooting star that crashed down to Earth, gifting her with his presence. He's just a tool. He's not much of anything.

Bokuto is mumbling to himself a little. "A thunderstorm, huh . . . " is what comes from under his breath, and then he looks up. "You mean I'm intense?"

"I suppose you could describe it that way," he says, and his voice sounds weird, almost a little . . . dreamlike. "You just have this sort of presence."

"Is it a bad thing?"

"It's a good thing."

Bokuto's following grin could set fire to the school with its brightness. "I would hope so! I want to make myself well-known."

"How so?" Now he's curious, but when is he not?

Bokuto looks delighted at being asked to elaborate, like he's never been asked that before. His eyes go a little dimmer, though, when he starts. "People only really know me for causing scenes. Like when I signed up for volleyball here and they tried to put me on the girls' team. I threw a big, ol' fit about it, but it worked, so that's fine, I guess. I think I annoy people sometimes. I wanna be well-known for volleyball! And for being good at it. 'Cause I am good at it. I want to be able to take us to nationals!"

"I'm sure you can," he says, earnestly. "And I don't think you're annoying."

"Really?" Bokuto gives him a genuinely shocked look. "When I first met you I thought I was annoying you."

"I just have that kind of face."

"I don't think you do."

"No, trust me. I do."

His friend rolls his eyes. "Oh, whatever. That pretty face of yours tells me no lies—" And Bokuto goes on talking again, but he feels like he's been shutdown. Deactivated. Frozen.

_Pretty._

. . . 

He called him pretty.

 

* * *

 

(He thinks about it for the rest of the day.)

 

* * *

 

"You should hang out with us more, Akaashi."

He nearly drops the volleyball he's holding. 

"What?"

His upperclassmen just wave at him. "Yeah!" Sarukui says. "Like eating lunch with us. It'll be a bonding experience."

". . . I eat lunch with Bokuto- _san._  "

"Then tell him to get his ass over too!" says Konoha. "He used to eat with us until you came along. Now he spends all his time with you."

"Ah." He suddenly feels strange. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Konoha laughs, and then winks at him. He feels like he's missing out on something.

"A lot of the first-years keep bailing out," says Komi, rolling his eyes and shoving the cackling Konoha off to the side. "You're, like, one of the  _really_  good players. It's amazing that you're just a first-year, really."

"What he's saying is that we have to make sure you stay. We  _will_  resort to kidnapping," pipes up Konoha. Komi shoves him again.

After a glance around the court, he does notice the lack of first-years. There are maybe a few left other than him. Fukurodani is a powerhouse school, and if one does not catch up, then one does not make it. 

Evidently, he made it.

"I'll think about it," he eventually says, his body feeling light.

"Cool!" Sarukui exclaims, pumping his fist in the air. "We always eat outside in the courtyard. Unless it's raining. Then we sit under the canopy by the courtyard."

"Tell Bokuto," Konoha urges, and he has that look on his face again. "We can't have him going without his favorite underclassmen."

He nods, but he still feels like there's some secret he isn't being told. Judging from the way Konoha is snickering and the way the other two are pushing him, he figures it is something silly. But he still wants to know.

(He gets that stubborn nosiness from his mom.)

"Alright," Komi then says, trying to turn the attention of everyone back to what they're actually supposed to be doing. "Let's do, like, three-on-threes. Me, Konoha, and Akaashi _-kun_  versus Sarukui, Bokuto, and Kinashita."

The said third year looks up. "You guys better not be doing stupid shit again. This time is for  _practicing._  "

He has a feeling either the coach, the captain, or  _both_  are going to rag on the group of them if they don't get to action quick. He glances at his upperclassmen, who are visibly sweating from Kinashita's glare.

"We are just recruiting, uh," Konoha says quickly, then rushes over to grab both of his shoulders, "good, ol' Akaashi _-kun_  here!"

He feels annoyed at being used as a scapegoat, but it isn't entirely false.

"Right, right," Kinashita says, and lifts himself up from the bench with a sigh. "Let's get this over with." He looks around for a moment, noticing the lack of players. "Where even is Bokuto?"

"Calling his aunt, I think," Komi replies. "Give him a few."

"Is there a problem or something?"

"Nah. Or at least I don't think so. You know how Bokuto's aunt is."

"True."

True, he says, and he feels wrong. His heart twists and his brain feels fizzled out. There is a strong urge that overcomes him — a want to gain knowledge. He has never heard of this aunt. He knows nothing of Bokuto's family. He only knows the school and volleyball oriented side of his friend, and he never even thought to ask about the other sides he may be concealing.

He wants to be true friends with Bokuto Koutarou. Not just the type of friends who only talk when they see each other in class. Not just the type of friends who only give one another a nod of acknowledgement when their eyes meet. Not just the type of friends who only play volleyball together.

When Bokuto comes running back, ready to play, he tries not to let his nosiness show too much.

 

* * *

 

When they're walking back to the train station that afternoon, it sort of just bursts out of him.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, trying not to be too obvious.

"With what?" Bokuto questions.

"You were on the phone earlier."

"Oh!" Bokuto snaps his fingers, and slings his bag over his shoulder a little more. "I was just calling my aunt. She wanted to ask my opinion over what to make for dinner tonight. She doesn't like texting for some reason." He leans in a little and cups a hand over his mouth like he's about to reveal some deep secret, and whispers, "She says it's because technology is stupid, but I just think she's old."

He takes a few moments to recognize the implications of his explanation. He's distracted by the feeling of Bokuto's breath on his neck. "You live with your aunt?" 

"Ah." Bokuto falters a little. "Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, like it's something to be ashamed about.

"Sorry," he says immediately. "I didn't mean—"

"No, it's okay," Bokuto interrupts, and he feels a little (a lot) bad. "Sometimes I forget that every family isn't the same."

He wants to say so much —  _my family isn't the same either, I don't know what caring parents are like, your aunt calls you and wants to hear your voice?_ — but he bites his tongue and keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he asks, "What's your family like?"

"I live with my aunt, obviously, and my uncle, and my three cousins." Bokuto is grinning. "But they're more like siblings to me, honestly. And I'm the oldest!"

He wants to ask more, and learn more, and understand more, but he doesn't. Some things are better left unsaid, and there must be a reason why Bokuto does not live with his parents. They have not known each other for very long, and he doesn't want to ruin anything, or end up being rude.

(He was raised to be very polite, after all.)

"What about you?" Bokuto then asks, snapping him out of his train of thought. "Mr. Interrogator."

"Sorry," he says again, even though he knows Bokuto is joking. "It's just me and my parents." His throat feels thick.

"Wow, really? No siblings?"

"Nope."

"Wow . . . " He sounds astounded. "I can't even imagine! It's always so loud and crowded in my house."

". . . Mine is quiet."

Bokuto's expression slowly shifts to an odd one, and his eyebrows furrow like he's calculating something. "You can always come hang out at my house," he says definitively, nodding his head to emphasize it.

"What?"

"You can even come over for dinner! My aunt loves having guests over."

"I—no. I wouldn't want to pry . . . "

"Well, you don't have to right now. But you always can!" Bokuto stops, whirling around and facing him. His eyes are sparkling. "It'd be fun! We can, like, play video games and do homework together. My cousins will probably end up bothering you." When he doesn't reply, his expression wavers a bit. "Or. Well. You don't have to."

"I want to," he blurts, because he wants to, and he wants to stop Bokuto's train of thought before it takes off anywhere. "I've just never hung out at a friend's house before."

"Really? So I'd be your first! That's cool. We can always go to yours, too."

"No," he then says too fast. "No. Yours is fine."

There's a beat of silence. Bokuto gives him a look that's far-too-knowing. "Alright," he says calmly, and then takes out something from his back pocket. "Gimme your phone number."

It's kind of surprising to him that they don't already have one another's phone numbers, but he feels as if he's been too distant for Bokuto to even try and ask. Just-school-friends don't exactly text each other outside of school hours, after all.

He takes out his phone and lets Bokuto send his own phone a text. When he hands it back, he sees that the message he had sent consisted of several owl emojis. It's kind of cute.

"There! Your phone number looks cool."

That makes absolutely no sense. He snorts, covering his mouth with his hand to try and suppress his laughter. " _'Cool'?_  " he repeats incredulously.

"The numbers! They just look cool. Stop laughing at me, I'm trying to be nice!"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, but he's still laughing. "No one has ever called my phone number  _cool_  before." Nobody has ever called his phone number anything, or even called it at all, but he doesn't say that.

"Well, consider yourself lucky." Bokuto huffs and turns around, walking to the train station a little ahead of him, pretending like he's mad. He's not, though, judging from the way the corners of his mouth quirk up and how he slows down to let his friend catch up.

He's trying to keep from smiling, too, and saves Bokuto's number in his phone, putting a little owl emoji next to his name.

 

* * *

 

It actually takes quite some time for Bokuto to text him.

 

[  _22:12_  ] bokuto 🦉: actuslly though if my auntie finds out tht I have a friend that she HASNT cooked for she will be pissed

 

Bokuto types exactly how he expected him too. It makes him laugh a little, and he pushes away his textbook in favor of picking up his phone to type out a reply.

 

[  _22:13_  ] well, i wouldn't want to make her angry.

[  _22:13_  ] i'll see when i'm free next.

 

His reply comes right away. It's sort of flattering.

 

[  _22:13_  ] bokuto 🦉: NICE

[  _22:14_  ] bokuto 🦉: ah the life of a smart student

[  _22:14_  ] bokuto 🦉: what are thy called again

[  _22:15_  ] bokuto 🦉: AH

[ _22:15_  ] bokuto 🦉: honors.

 

[  _22:16_  ] it is very time-consuming.

 

Not to mention the constant weight of his parents' expectations. Even when he isn't busy, he has to do something productive, something educational. There is no free time in the Akaashi household. 

 

[  _22:17_  ] bokuto 🦉: im not exactly the smartest in the world but maybe i can help sometime

 

[  _22:17_  ] i'll probably take you up on that offer.

[  _22:18_  ] what's your best subject?

 

[ _22:19_  ] bokuto 🦉: science

[  _22:19_  ] bokuto 🦉: and some parts of englsuf

[  _22:20_  ] bokuto 🦉: english

 

[ _22:21_  ] i can see that. you seem very adept at using your brain to solve hypotheses.

 

[  _22:22_  ] bokuto 🦉: hypo what now

 

[  _22:23_  ] plural form of hypothesis.

 

[  _22:24_  ] bokuto 🦉: OHH lol

[  _22:25_  ] bokuto 🦉: cathc me busting out a chem kit in the middle of a vb match

 

[  _22:26_  ] i'll extend that offer to you as well. if you need help in any subject, i'd be willing to tutor you.

 

[  _22:27_  ] bokuto 🦉: REALLY?

[  _22:27_  ] bokuto 🦉: thatd be sick

[  _22:27_  ] bokuto 🦉: but i dont want u to overwork urself

 

His homework has become completely forgotten.

 

[  _22:28_  ] it'll be okay. i can work on mine while i'm helping you out.

 

[  _22:29_  ] bokuto 🦉: wowwww multitasker. pretty AND talented

 

There it is again.  _Pretty._  Followed by the word  _talented._  His unbridled and constant praise is always so sporadic and genuine that he isn't sure what to do with himself when it happens. He isn't used to it. His parents sure don't praise him so . . . so  _openly._  Without backhanded compliments. Without insults.

He eventually manages to type out a reply.

 

[ _22:31_  ] i suppose so.

[  _22:31_  ] it's getting late. shouldn't you be asleep.

 

[  _22:32_  ] bokuto 🦉: i am fuckin tired but . my gosh damn cosuin-siblings are making a racket 

[ _22:32_  ] bokuto 🦉: im about 2 go big-brother them

 

[  _22:33_  ] what does that consist of?

 

[  _22:34_  ] bokuto 🦉: throwing pillows at them and tackling them til they fall asleep

 

[  _22:35_  ] i'm not so sure that will make them tired.

 

[  _22:36_  ] bokuto 🦉: listen im the science man . ok. i got this.

[  _22:37_  ] bokuto 🦉: gtg wreck them now gn

 

[  _22:38_  ] don't be too rough. goodnight.

 

He has an odd feeling when he closes his messenger app and puts his phone back on the table (the screen facing up, just in case). He mechanically brings his work back to him, but his mind is anywhere but the figures on his homework. His heart is pounding and his fingers feel tingly from typing so much. It's the first time he's been able to drop formalities while texting. His parents expect clear, concise messages with clear intentions. Bokuto types like he talks, like he exists. 

He thinks of Bokuto's cousins —  _do they look like him? do they have the same hairstyle or hair color? same eyes? do they have his height or his attitude?_  — and of Bokuto's aunt —  _is she tall or short? is she blood-related to him at all? what does her cooking taste like? how does she treat her kids? how warm are her eyes?_ — and of—

 _No. Stop._  He shakes away those thoughts. He has to stop being so  _nosy_  about everything.

(He's turning into his mother.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so funny to write sometimes because akaashi is literally so gay and it's like. well.
> 
> also i have noticed that, for me, it is sometimes difficult to try and obviously differentiate between which boy i am talking about when i say "he" (because of akaashi's whole "distant identity" thing i'm trying to convey) but i am not sure if it's difficult for you guys to like . . . notice. or understand. so tell me if it is.
> 
> (also if these fucking emojis don't show up i'm gonna lose my mind.)
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tests aren't that hard for me!" Bokuto pipes up.
> 
> Konoha gives him a blank stare. "I've seen you just fill in random bubbles then walk out, like, five minutes later."
> 
> "'Cause I don't know any of the answers!" Bokuto replies, like it's obvious. "That's why they aren't hard!"
> 
> "Tell me how you're a second year again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ever just spend your elementary to middle school years without any friends so you resort to people-watching to see what it's like to talk to other people your age and you end up noticing literally every little thing about other people but have no one to share your observations with and then the people you're observing call you weird for watching them in the first place?

_Boring._

_Dull._

_Monotonous._

_Uneventful._

_Colorless._

_Insipid._

He writes all of these words in the margins of his notes, or, at least, what notes he can take. His teacher's voice grates on his ears and it's painful. He props up his head on one of his hands and drowns out the sound of that voice by listening to practically anything else in the room — the scraping of pencils against paper, the subtle gum smacking, the hushed whispering from the back of the room, the shuffling of papers from one hand to another, the tapping of several foots across the room, the shaking of the windows as the wind blows onto them from outside.

He already knows enough about this subject, after all. He wants this to be over with already. He wants to go home, except he doesn't. He wants to be all alone in his room, except he doesn't. 

His pencil scratches out more words.

_Tedious._

_Mundane._

_Dry._

_Bland._

_Jejune._

_Vapid._

It surprises him that so many words come to mind. He looks down at his tiny list, up at the board, then decides to erase them all.

 

* * *

 

He almost forgets.

He sits in waits for his friend's arrival in his classroom before a few minutes before remembering volleyball practice the other day.  _You should hang out with us more, Akaashi,_  his upperclassmen had said.  _Like eating lunch with us._

Glancing outside, there are some grey clouds in the sky, but the sun shines through every crevice untouched. As Sarukui had said, there are his seniors, chatting in the courtyard and shoving food unceremoniously in their mouth. Bokuto is with them, but his leg is bouncing, and his eyes are darting every which way, like he's looking for something.

It takes him a few moments to fit the puzzle pieces together. When he finally does, he tries not to look too hurried when he picks up his bag and speed-walks out of the classroom. He very nearly stumbles into someone as he goes down the stairs. He gives a quick apology and goes about his way, but his ears burn pink — he isn't sure why he is so anxious to get to the courtyard. The lunch period just started, after all. He has all the time in the world.

But . . . still. His steps pick up a bit as soon as he sees the glass doors.

When he steps outside, the wind blows one of Konoha's napkins into his face. It causes all of his upperclassmen to turn around, and when they spot him (ignoring his scowl from the dirty napkin), all their expressions light up. Sarukui starts laughing and pointing at Konoha, the latter of which looks drained.

"Ah," Konoha says as he walks up, "sorry, Akaashi- _kun._  "

He just waves him off, and moves to throw away the napkin in the trash. When he walks over to the picnic table, Bokuto graciously moves over to clear a space for him. The action is so automatic that it takes him aback, and he hesitates for a few moments, simply out of surprise more than anything. When he does sit, he and Bokuto's arms brush, and he isn't sure why he suddenly feels so warm.

"What'd you bring for lunch?" Komi asks him.

He takes out his usual box and opens it, unable to even get a word out to answer Komi's question before all four of them are leaning in close to peek. He learns that they're all inexplicably  _nosy,_  because his lunch isn't anything special, and yet they are all  _ooo_ -ing and  _aaa_ -ing at it. Most of their other lunches are either already eaten or half-eaten, and all goes ignored in favor of admiring his own lunch.

"What?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

"It's so . . . " Komi starts, then pauses. He looks over at Sarukui. "What's the word?"

"I don't even know what word you're trying to say."

Komi then looks at Konoha, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Konoha gives him an odd look in response, and lifts a hand to wave lightly. "What? I dunno. Neat? Fancy? Ar—"

"Articulate!" Komi interrupts, puffing air out of his nose triumphantly. "It's very  _articulate._  "

He blinks, and looks down at his own lunch. He wonders whether or not he should say that the word  _articulate_  applies only to one's voice.

"How was your day, Akaashi?" Bokuto then asks, leaning forward on the table and effectively blocking anyone else from getting near his lunch. Konoha barely muffles a laugh in response, coughing on his own food so hard that Sarukui gives him a halfhearted pat on the back.

"It was alright," he replies, but knows Bokuto won't be satisfied with  _just_  that ( _details,_  he always emphasizes,  _I want to know about the details!_  ), so he goes on. "Class was very boring. I barely paid any attention to what it was about."

"Did you even take notes?"

"Tried to. I'm pretty sure they only turned into scribbles." He takes a bite of his lunch, and savors the taste for a moment. 

"You're in one of the higher-up classes, right?" Konoha asks, picking at the skin around his nails. It's a habit he notices he does often.

His mouth is full, so he just nods.

"Cool!" Konoha says earnestly, and it still surprises him how open and honest Fukurodani seems to be. "I am too. Kind of. I understand what they're teaching but I get confused on tests. Sometimes they put questions they didn't even teach in class!" His expressions also easily switch one way to another. He reads like an open book, even if his resting face looks more irritated than anything.

His mind races with different words that describe Konoha.

_Mischievous._

_Roguish._

_Ludic._

"A lot of tests are just meant to single out those who cannot meet the school's requirements," he simply says.

Sarukui snorts and snaps a few times. "No kidding."

"Tests aren't that hard for me!" Bokuto pipes up.

Konoha gives him a blank stare. "I've seen you just fill in random bubbles then walk out, like, five minutes later."

"'Cause I don't know any of the answers!" Bokuto replies, like it's obvious. "That's why they aren't hard!"

"Tell me how you're a second year again."

"Hey! I'm plenty smart!"

"If you say so."

_Blunt._

_Brash._

_Sharp._

"He's in the lowest class!" Komi says, slinging an arm around Bokuto's neck. "We are one in the same."

"You don't always have to point that out! And you're not even in the lowest one."

"Class 2 is basically the same as Class 1."

"It is not!"

"Let Bokuto be his stupid self in peace."

As they joke around and poke fun at their fellow team member, he can see the way Bokuto's smile fades. The light in his eyes goes just a little dimmer. He's still grinning, still laughing, but all of his movements are muted and slow. He averts his eyes when Komi leans forward and laughs right into his ears. He squeezes his own palms and tries to scoot back in his seat. He's sitting right next to him, but feels utterly useless. He can feel the discomfort radiating from his friend, but his voice feels too quiet, too useless, to speak up and do something about it.

It feels that way, but his heart feels a different way.

"Bokuto- _san,_  " he manages, flinching a little when all four snap their heads to look at him, "if you want, I could help you study."

Bokuto's eyes soften, but his expression is still blank. "What would I need to study for?"

Oh boy. "Um . . . your tests?"

"But I already know how to do them!"

He blinks once, twice. "Well . . . I can show you another way how to do them. So you'll pass."

Another moment of silence washes over them. He knows Bokuto isn't stupid, not by a long shot, but . . . still. It takes him a while to process just what he's saying. When it finally does click, he beams, all traces of his previous discomfort gone (whether he realizes it or not). 

"You'd do that!?"

"Of course." He bites his tongue after he says it. Maybe he should've used a different word. Sarukui and Konoha are giving him looks. To hide his reddening face (why is he turning red?), he moves to pile more food into his mouth, refusing to elaborate on his response.

The others go back to chatting, mostly about aimless topics — Konoha brings up a new movie that is coming out in a month and the table goes wild. Bokuto's apparently very receptive to the topic; his whole body is tensed up in anticipation and he blabbers on about trailers and characters and theories.  _I'm so excited!_  he shouts, loud enough to where other people in the courtyard look towards him.

He's still eating, so he cannot exactly contribute (he has never even heard of this movie before, either), but seeing the look on his upperclassmen's faces is a treat all on its own. The excitement in people is something so pure to him. The way people behave and react without realizing is one of his favorite things to observe.

He watches Komi, first. He's so similar to Bokuto in his mannerisms and the way he talks. He's just as excited for the movie as he is, too, but maybe even a little less compared to the way Bokuto flaps his arms and stomps his feet when Konoha mentions one scene in the trailer. Komi has a habit of messing with his hair whenever he starts talking for a long time, and he does it now, explaining his theory about the movie in great detail. Sarukui pipes up once in a while to affirm what he's saying, and that only encourages Komi to start explaining even deeper. 

(He still has no idea what they're talking about, but he feels invested at this point.)

Komi is . . . interesting.

_Excitable._

_Mercurial._

_Dramatic._

_Discursive._

Sarukui is more quiet, preferring to listen rather than speak up (somewhat like himself), but even with his seemingly permanent-looking smile, his facial expressions and body movements give him away.

_Forthright._

_Calm._

_Crisp._

They're all so very different, but compliment each other in strange ways. He had heard Fukurodani was a powerhouse, and had seen it for himself, but he knows true power lies in the friendship and connection between each team member. He sees it here, with the atmosphere that their single conversation is creating. There are eyes being drawn towards them, with how loud they're becoming, and even with the lunch period coming to an end, he still walks with them. He's intrigued. _Interested._  He's not embarrassed about being seen with them, even when Komi says something that makes a passerby gasp and giggle into her friend's ear.

He doesn't even feel like an outsider, because every so often they look at him as if for approval for what they're saying. Every time he brings up the fact he doesn't know this movie, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other. 

(He makes a note to go outside more often.)

 

* * *

 

During volleyball practice, when he makes a good set right into Bokuto's hands, all of the upperclassmen surround him and start patting some part of his body, praising him and his skills. Even the coach laughs and gives him a thumbs up, even when he doesn't see it as such a big deal.

"You're the best first-year we've ever had!"

"Hey!" Bokuto protests. "What about me?"

The manager scoffs next to the coach. He doesn't remember her name, but he thinks it starts with a  _Y._  

"The statement still applies."

Bokuto lets out a dramatic wail. The others all laugh at him, making it very clear that Bokuto is only messing around. He isn't sure he could be compared to any of the others' levels. He still has to work on his receiving and speed. The others . . . they are all so talented. They all contribute to the powerhouse status of Fukurodani Academy. 

Whereas he is still new. Still on his trial run for volleyball. 

(This may not be permanent.)

 

* * *

 

They're walking home together, like always, and he's staring straight ahead, his mind buzzing with static, when Bokuto says it.

"When do you want to study together?"

He blinks a few times, registering the question. "Any time."

Bokuto hesitates. "What about tomorrow? After practice?"

He thinks about it. Tomorrow is a Saturday. The beginning of the weekend. 

"We can go to my place. Or yours."

He isn't sure he's quite ready to face Bokuto's house just yet. He isn't sure why. There's a part of him that says  _say no,_  and his blood rushes in his ears.

So, he says it: "No. Um. We can go to mine."

Bokuto gives him a look. "Will your parents be there?"

His parents are never home on weekends. Not often. But still . . . 

"Probably not. But. I'll have to ask."

"Mm," Bokuto hums in reply, and he isn't sure what it's supposed to mean. "That's okay. Just text me what's up."

 _Just text me,_  he says. He feels the weight of his phone in his bag. He texts people now. His friends (even if it's just one).

He looks over at Bokuto to reply, but whatever he was going to say flies out the window. The sun is setting and it illuminates his friend in a magnificent orange light. The tips of his spiked hair are starting to curl. His hands are in his pockets and his bag is slung over one shoulder, threatening to slip off completely. His lips are pursed in thought and he looks up towards the sky as he walks, just barely avoiding dips and cracks in the road. When he walks, his footsteps are solid and outspoken. 

_Radiant._

_Glowing._

_Rapturous._

_Effulgent._

_Incandescent._

_Fiery._

_Explosive._

_Loquacious._

_Convivial._

He almost stops in place. He really is a star.

 

* * *

 

The house is deathly silent when he enters, but his parents are in the living room, making small talk. He wonders if they even love each other anymore, or if they ever did in the first place.

He takes off his shoes and slowly walks up to them. He feels his heart pounding harder with every step. He has never really asked his parents for anything before, not since he was a child. And to ask this . . . something that has never happened before . . .

"Mom?" he asks, his voice faint. He clears his throat and tries again. "Mom? Dad?"

His parents snap their gazes towards him. Their eyes are scrutinizing, questioning.

He falters a bit. "Um. I was wondering if . . . I can have a friend over tomorrow. To study." He adds the last bit quickly. "We're going to study."

His mother's shoulders loosen a bit. "A friend?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't I heard about this friend before?"

He picks at the end of his nail. "He's an upperclassman. Volleyball club."

"Ah," his father notes. "Volleyball. "

"He . . . he asked me for some help."

"So you're going to tutor him?" his mother asks. She's so nosy. So interrogative. His parents both act like they care and do not care at the same time.

His face twitches in displeasure, but he tries not to show it. "Yes. After volleyball practice tomorrow."

His parents share a look with one another, communicating silently. He still cannot ever decipher what they're saying or feeling when they do that. Then, they turn back to him and eye him up and down.

"A name?" his father asks.

He swallows. "Bokuto." His palms are sweating. "Um, Bokuto Koutarou."

His mother hums and nods to herself. For as much as he picks up on other's body language and what it means, his parents are closed books. They can do one thing and mean another. He supposes it's an Akaashi thing.

"As long as you two are actually _studying,_  " his mother says warningly, "then alright. Text me when he's here and when he leaves."

He didn't realize he was even holding his breath. He exhales all in one motion, loosening the grip he had on his own hands. They are red and sore when he flexes them in an attempt to reduce the stiffness.

"Alright. Thank you."

He turns to walk away.

"Goodnight, Keiji," his mother says suddenly.

He freezes in place, shocked. He doesn't turn around, and his heart jumps up to his throat. He can feel it pumping. Is this a trick? Is she trying to spot a lie in his story? Trying to fool him into telling her about his entire high school experience? 

Quietly, he says, "Goodnight, Mom. Dad."

His father says nothing, but if he makes any faces, he doesn't see them. He all but runs into his room, resisting the urge to lock the door behind him.

Slowly climbing onto his bed, he lays down and stares at the ceiling for a few moments. It isn't until he reaches for his phone that he notices that he's shaking. His fingers tremble as he types out a message.

 

[  _19:58_  ] they said yes.

 

Bokuto's reply comes instantly.

 

[  _19:59_  ] bokuto 🦉: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ _20:00_  ] bokuto 🦉: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[  _20:00_  ] bokuto 🦉: IM ECIGTED!

 

[  _20:01_  ] "excited"?

 

[  _20:01_  ] bokuto 🦉: YES!

 

[  _20:01_  ] :)

 

[  _20:02_  ] bokuto 🦉: OMG

[  _20:02_  ] bokuto 🦉: :))))))))))))))))))))))

[  _20:02_  ] bokuto 🦉: GNIGHT AKAASHI!!

 

Bokuto's capslock must be broken.

 

[  _20:03_  ] goodnight.

 

He locks his phone and holds it against his chest. His face is red for some reason. His heart is pounding, but he isn't sure if it's still from his interaction with his parents. The room is cold and the window is open, and the breeze brushes against his face, but his entire body feels warm.

Covering his face with his hands, he lets out a very tiny, " _Ugh._  "

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to chaos.

 

[  _07:15_  ] +81-805-551-56: LOLOLOLOL

[ _07:15_  ] +81-805-551-56: Yukie says that all the time

 

[ _07:16_  ] +81-905-551-876: excuse me

[  _07:16_  ] +81-905-551-876: you all should be getting ready and stop talking about me

 

[  _07:17_  ] +81-805-558-3905: Oops

 

[  _07:17_  ] +81-805-551-56: AH

 

[  _07:18_  ] +81-905-557-9666: bused lmao

[  _07:18_  ] +81-905-557-9666: busted**

[  _07:18_  ] +81-905-557-9666: all of you shut the fuck up i can feel you typing

 

[ _07:19_  ] +81-805-551-56: Bused

 

[  _07:19_  ] +81-905-551-876: bused

 

[  _07:19_  ] +81-805-558-3905: Bused

 

[  _07:19_  ] bokuto 🦉: bused

 

Wait.  _Bokuto?_  He decides to finally type out a message, after scrolling through and skimming the many messages he suddenly has.

 

[  _07:20_  ] um. what is this?

 

[  _07:20_  ] +81-905-557-9666: is that akaashi-kun

 

[  _07:20_  ] who are all of you?

 

[  _07:21_  ] bokuto 🦉: they insisted and i apologize

 

[  _07:21_  ] +81-905-557-9666: this is the super cool upperclassmen of fukurodani volleyball club groupchat

[ _07:21_  ] +81-905-557-9666: idk its usually kinda dead cuz we just use it whenever we forget about a match

[  _07:21_  ] +81-905-557-9666: but we just added u so its lively

 

He's so confused.

 

[  _07:22_  ] but i'm not an upperclassmen?

 

He sends the message, then sets his phone down so he can start getting ready. When he's finished getting washed up and dressed, he comes back into his room to see several more missed messages on his phone.

 

[  _07:23_  ] +81-905-557-9666: we think ur cool

[  _07:23_  ] +81-905-557-9666: plus bokuto likes u so lol

[  _07:23_  ] +81-905-557-9666: im konoha

[  _07:23_  ] +81-905-557-9666: -876 is yukie but she never talks in here except to yell at us

 

[  _07:24_  ] +81-805-551-56: I'm Komi!

 

[  _07:24_  ] +81-805-558-3905: Sarukui

 

[ _07:25_  ] bokuto 🦉: im bokuto!!!!

 

[  _07:25_  ] +81-905-557-9666: doesn't he already have your number

 

[  _07:26_  ] bokuto 🦉: i wanted to feel included :(

 

He quickly saves all their numbers to avoid confusion, but refrains from adding emojis to the ends of their names. For now.

 

[  _07:27_  ] oh. i see.

[  _07:27_  ] i've never been in a group chat before.

 

[  _07:28_  ] bokuto 🦉: omg i just dropped my protein shake

 

[  _07:29_  ] konoha: really?

[  _07:29_  ] konoha: well surprise ur here for the long run now

[  _07:29_  ] konoha: also im about to leave rn

 

[  _07:30_  ] bokuto 🦉: MY SHAKE

 

[  _07:31_  ] komi: Lol

 

[  _07:32_  ] sarukui: Yukie are we doing running today

 

[  _07:34_  ] yukie: yah

 

[  _07:34_  ] konoha: yah

 

[  _07:35_  ] komi: D:

[  _07:35_  ] komi: Ok I'm leaving too

 

[  _07:36_  ] konoha: don't trip on the sidewalk again

 

[ _07:37_  ] komi: THAT WAS ONE TIME YOU SAY THIS EVERYDAY

 

[  _07:38_  ] sarukui: Lmao

 

He decides to mute the group chat and close it for now. It's only seven in the morning and he already feels way too overwhelmed. He has practice with people who have decided he's worthy enough to join a group chat meant for upperclassmen, and then Bokuto is going to come over to his house so they can study together. Alone. At his house. Alone.

"Ugh, " he says out loud again. 

He has a feeling that today is going to be a very strange day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes fukurodani has a groupchat. no i will not remove this from the story.
> 
> this isn't becoming a chatfic dw. but texting is a very vital part of high school experience!
> 
> (i also just used a japanese phone number generator. i'm doing my best here, okay.)
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I find it calming. Taking walks on rainy days are one of my favorite things to do."
> 
> "On a rainy day? You'll get wet!"
> 
> "I bring an umbrella, obviously."
> 
> "But your shoes!"
> 
> "Rain boots."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg. ok. sorry for the wait ... my laptop legiterally broke down on me in the middle of crunch week, the uni internet has been shitty, and it's also going into finals week! but i managed this. somehow.
> 
> (have you ever felt the awkwardness of having a friend over for the first time? no? well, you'll feel it here.)

He notices that there is a stronger sense of unity across the upperclassmen than there is among the other freshmen. While he, himself, is a part of the latter, his newfound companions —  _friends,_  his mind echoes — have decided to invite him into their group.

 _Him._  A first-year. In a group of _upperclassmen._  And they barely even know him!

He tries to make sure he doesn't look too excited as he steps inside the gymnasium for morning practice. However, he cannot suppress the absolute feeling of foolishness that festers around his chest. He was the one who insisted on not having friends all of middle school, after all. He has no idea how to behave on a daily basis in front of so many different people — all of whom seem to want to spend their time around him, even. Volleyball was never important to him before, but now there are so many factors coming into play that make him want to stay—

(—that make him want to put his foot down and say,  _No, Mom. I want to be a volleyball player._  )

He's just setting down his bag when he hears the telltale sound of Bokuto screaming. It echoes in the gym, and while he would normally feel bothered by the loud sound, he feels the corner of his lips twitch upwards. 

(Weird.)

He turns his head to see what all the commotion is about. Bokuto, Konoha, and Komi are walking from the one side of the gym to the other, all carrying different sizes bags. Bokuto is looking down at his thumb, which is pink around the end of it.

"I already  _said_  sorry," Konoha says.

"But it still hurts!" Bokuto whines.

 _Ah._  Now he understands.

Komi groans as he drags his feet across the floor. "Konoha," he calls, "can you carry this for me?" His voice has a lilt to it that implies that he's joking, but the strain of his arms say otherwise.

Konoha gets a little twinkle in his eye that gives him the feeling that he's up to no good. He stops in place for a moment, puts a hand on his chin, then grins. "Of course, Komi," he drawls, grinning even further when Komi lets out a sigh of relief, oblivious.

"Thank _you,_  " he says, dropping the bag into Konoha's waiting hands at the last word. He brushes off his hands a few times on his shorts, and starts to take a few strides forward.

Bokuto is trying his best to muffle his laughter. Konoha doesn't move for a while, watching Komi stride forward, shaking his arms like he's trying to get the feeling back. He starts to talk about something, a story, maybe, as Konoha gently sets down his own bag and heaves Komi's over one shoulder. Another few moments pass, and then Konoha hurls the bag as hard as he can. Komi does his best to not fall from the impact, stumbling forward and swinging his arms in a circular motion in an attempt to gain balance, shrieking, but he eventually falls forward, landing on his arms, face-first. The bag breaks open and differently-colored volleyballs spill out everywhere, bouncing and rolling all over the floor. Konoha is screaming and laughing all at the same time, and Bokuto runs over to the wall to prop himself up as he wheezes. 

"C'mon,  _Komiyan,_  " teases Sarukui from the bench, not even making an effort to get up to help, "shake it off!"

Komi manages to get himself to his hands and knees, and he whirls around to glare at Konoha, whose face is red as he puts his hands over his mouth to smother his laughter. "It's not funny!"

"You —  _ha, ha!_  — are the  _most_  . . . g-gullible person in the  _world!_  " Konoha manages between giggles.

At that, Komi jumps to his feet and rushes over to him. He's a lot shorter than Konoha is, however, and his attempts to pull and push at him only end up in Konoha laughing harder. Komi ends up pulling at his hair and yelling something about his sore arms.

(It's hardly even eight in the morning.)

At that moment, the coach walks in. A noticeable grey cloud falls over the gym and he merely crosses his arms as a stray volleyball rolls past his foot.

"And just  _what_  is going on here?"

 

* * *

 

As punishment, Konoha and Komi end up having to do ten more laps of running than everyone else. Bokuto, Sarukui, and Yukie all watch from the bench and jeer at them. Some of the first-years watch them in horror, but he knows it's all in good fun.

Konoha finishes his laps before Komi, and he jogs up to the others, taking a seat right next to him. He hands him a water bottle, and Konoha nudges his head towards him gratefully, chest heaving from the heavy breaths he's taking.

"Was it  _really_  worth it?" Yukie asks, trying to sound deadpan. The tiny giggles in her voice give her away. He thinks she looks mature, but a lot of her mannerisms tell otherwise.

Konoha takes a long gulp from the water bottle, and exhales louder than he needs to once he swallows. He watches Komi run his last lap, and grins. "Absolutely."

"I knew what you were going to do as soon as you took the bag," Bokuto laughs from the other side of him. He leans to the side so much than his shoulder is pressing up against him. It's very warm, and not just from all the sweat.

"Yes, well," Konoha says, "I got the idea from you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Remember when you threw that bucket at Yukie's head?"

"Th—that was an  _accident!_  "

Bokuto goes red but Konoha is laughing. Even Yukie has to cover her mouth to keep from smiling too much. 

He takes a moment to stop admiring Bokuto's flustered face so much. "A  _bucket?_  " he repeats, shocked. 

Konoha leans over his shoulder to clap him on the back, rubbing his fingers into his shoulders. Any other time, he'd feel uncomfortable by the sudden touch, but he just stays in place. "Our good friend Bokuto here wanted to see how long water would stay in a bucket if he threw it really hard."

"Not for long," he answers.

"Correct, Akaashi- _kun!_  But the man wanted to see for himself, you see," Konoha goes on, "and our poor Yukie became yet another victim of Bokuto's shenanigans."

"Another? " he asks.

"Of course! I have a list."

Bokuto sighs, tipping his head back. His fingertips brush over his hands for a moment. "Don't bring out the list in front of Akaashi."

"Why not?"

Bokuto blushes again. "'Cause then he won't wanna be my friend anymore!"

He raises his eyebrows, and turns his head towards him. "Well, I've been here this long, haven't I?"

Konoha makes a wheezing sound. Sarukui is giving them a look.

He tilts his head at Bokuto, awaiting his response. He goes on, "I doubt a silly list of your  _adventures_  is enough to scare me away." He isn't sure why he says that, and while he's interested in seeing this list, he's much more interested in the way Bokuto's face looks. He doesn't realize how close they are until this moment. Konoha's hands have removed themselves from his shoulders, and when he glances down, he sees that their fingertips are inches away from touching.

Then, before anything else can happen, Komi comes running towards them. Konoha tosses him a water bottle and he fumbles trying to catch it. He opens it to take a sip but ends up dropping it on the ground. Konoha sighs. 

Komi looks between him and Bokuto. "Did I miss something?"

 

* * *

 

"Akaashi," Coach Yamiji calls to him towards the end of practice, "would you mind coming over here for a second?"

He looks between him and the volleyball court a few times, then gives a slight nod, running a nervous hand through his hair as he jogs over. The coach beckons him to sit on the bench with him. He does, and he can feel his legs shaking from both anticipation and overexertion. 

"Don't look so nervous," says his coach, and he blanches —  _was it that obvious?_  "I just wanted to tell you that you're a great player. I'm considering putting you in our primary setter position."  _What?_  "I know you're just a first-year, but you show great potential. I think you'll be able to grow even more as you practice."

He's silent — just staring in shock. His mouth is open like a fish, and he snaps it shut after a second thought. His mind is blank and he has no idea what to say — should he thank him? Protest? Say something else?

"I also think you should work more with Bokuto," his coach goes on, not noticing his inner dilemma. "You two have this — hmm, how do I say this — spark? You two could really develop your skills together."

Then, Coach looks at him, expecting a reply, and he knows he has to throw something together quick.

"Ah," he starts, "thank you." He can feel his ears burning but he does his best to keep his face calm and collected. "I'll . . . talk to Bokuto-san about it."

"Mm, okay," Coach Yamiji says, twirling his pen in his fingers. "Alright, that's all I wanted. You can head back now."

He nods towards him and walks back to the court. Bokuto immediately makes room for him to rejoin the game. The effortless and almost automatic movement makes his stomach clench in a weird way. Getting back into the rhythm of the game is even easier.

( _You two have this . . . spark,_  Coach had said.

No kidding.)

 

* * *

 

As soon as practice is over, they're all putting the equipment away, and that's when it hits him.

Bokuto is coming over to his house.

He had forgotten, of course, and as soon as the memory of them texting to one another comes crashing back, the net he's trying to put away very nearly crashes, too. Nobody's paying attention to him at the moment, so he takes the time to take a deep breath, and shove the net back into its spot. He isn't sure where this sudden wave of anxiety came from, but he's cracking his fingers and wiggling them more than usual. When he walks back over to his bag, his steps are louder and more pronounced. He deliberately tries to make them quieter. It doesn't work.

And despite everything, Bokuto is the least forgetful one this time. He all but  _skips_  up to him, bag slung over his shoulder, a grin from ear to ear. "Hey, 'kaashi!" he greets. "Ready to go?"

He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Mm-hmm," he answers, not trusting his voice. His skin feels tingly and warm. 

They say their goodbyes to their other teammates and make their way to the train station. Is it just him, or does today feel  _really_  hot for some reason? It's making its way into mid-May. The qualifiers are next weekend. Are the temperatures going up that fast? 

Bokuto seems to be unbothered. He rocks back and forth on his heels as they wait for the train. He has his volleyball uniform shirt on but has pulled a pair of sweatpants on over the shorts. His forehead is still a little wet with sweat — they really pushed themselves hard today. When the rush of wind comes towards them, he gives a little sigh of relief, pulling on the collar of his shirt. 

Okay, maybe he's not the only one that's hot.  _Warm._  He means warm.

"I wish it was hotter," Bokuto says. "I love hot weather."

He wrinkles his nose. "No."

"You don't like it?"

" _Absolutely_  not," he protests. He's very passionate about this. "You can always put on more layers with cold weather. What are you gonna take off when it's hot?"

"Everyone tells me that!" Bokuto exclaims. "My body is just built for the heat!" He throws his arms in the air and grins up at the sky, saying hello to the sun. He's causing a scene. He's very cute. He puts his arms down when the train rushes by, and as they get onto it, he says, "I like sunny days the best. No clouds. Light breeze. I love going for a run on those days."

He shrugs lightly. "I like ten to twenty degree weather. That's light jacket weather. Maybe even rainy days." At Bokuto's look, he chuckles a little. "But sunny days are fun too."

"Rain is okay, I guess," Bokuto tries. "I don't like being in it. The sound of it is pretty though."

"I find it calming. Taking walks on rainy days are one of my favorite things to do."

"On a rainy day? You'll get wet!"

"I bring an umbrella, obviously."

"But your shoes!"

"Rain boots."

"Oh my gosh, you have _rain boots?_  I've always wanted  _really_  bright ones." Bokuto's eyes are sparkling. "What color are they?"

"Grey."

" _Boring._  " Bokuto gives a little huff. "I'd get, like . . . red! Or maybe even yellow. Or orange! Pink!"

"I think yellow suits you." It rushes out of him; he doesn't even mean to say it. He can't take it back now, so he tries to pretend that it wasn't just a slip of the tongue. "I mean, you'd look good in it." That doesn't quite come out right either, but it also doesn't come out  _wrong._

(He could almost laugh. Here they are, on the train, talking about the  _weather._ )

Bokuto is giving him an odd look. His head is titled, like an owl. He almost laughs, again. "Oh," he says quietly, then grins. "Thanks!"

He nods at him, feeling somewhat embarrassed. The stop before their own suddenly fills up with a lot more people. He and Bokuto end up giving up their seats to a pregnant woman and her partner, and they have to squeeze together in the center of the train. His shoulder is pressing up against Bokuto's chest, his other arm reaching up to grab at the handle. Everywhere Bokuto is touching is burning. He feels his ears go pink —  _god, for what, the hundredth time that day?_  — and the pregnant woman's partner is giving him an amused look. He isn't quite sure what it means.

The train stops abruptly. Bokuto grabs his arm to catch him and nearly stumbles himself. It's their stop, however, so Bokuto leads them out through the crowd of people. Once they're in the fresh air, he sighs in relief. Crowded spaces are just not his thing.

They start walking. Usually, Bokuto would start splitting off towards his house, but he just stays right beside him. He's swinging his arms, and they brush against his every so often. He's chattering away about something in class, but he's not listening. 

He's never had someone over at his house before. And not a friend, certainly. He's supposed to help Bokuto with his studies, but he isn't sure how much he's going to be able to focus. What if his parents come back, and catch them in a moment where they're taking a break? What if his parents come back and decide that they don't like Bokuto? What if they ban him from the house? What if they ban him from ever seeing Bokuto again? What if they ban him from volleyball—

"—hey, Akaashi. Akaashi?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?" 

 _No,_  he wants to answer, and Bokuto's looking at him with such a concerned look that he almost blurts it out. But he shakes his head. "Sorry, no, yeah, I'm okay. I spaced out for a second. You were telling a story about, um . . . your sister? Cousin?"

Bokuto stares at him for a few more silent moments. "Are you sure?" he then says. "You don't have to pretend or anything."

 _Ah._  What can he even say to  _that?_

"Sorry," he blurts out. "I've never had anyone over at my house before."

"Really?" Bokuto asks, and his tone isn't in disbelief. Just curiosity. And when he nods, he just hums to himself, and says, "Well, it's pretty cool that I'm the first, then, huh!"

(Bokuto Koutarou really is something else.)

 

* * *

 

"Are your parents here?"

"No."

"Oh." Bokuto slowly and silently takes off his shoes at the door. When he shuts it, it feels like a curtain being drawn. Finality washes over the two of them.

He has a friend over.

"Can I ask where they are?" His tone is so careful. He isn't sure how it makes him feel.

"Work, probably," he answers, and then remembers his mother's conditions. He drops his bag and immediately takes out his phone. "It's just me, most of the time," he continues absentmindedly, typing out a  _bokuto is here to study_  to his mom and hitting send.

Bokuto is so quiet in response. The silence makes him nervous. He looks back at Bokuto once and then leads the two of them back to his room, where they sit on the floor, backs leaning against the side of his bed.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, because he isn't sure what else to do. He wants to break the silence.

"Nah," Bokuto replies casually, and it instills a bit of hope in him. "Not yet, at least. Are you?"

He thinks about it for a moment. His stomach feels empty. He shakes his head.

"I'm okay," he says, and opens up his bag. "What subject did you want to work on first?"

"Oh!" Bokuto exclaims, and rifles through his own bag. He leans over to see that there is virtually no order inside — there are random textbooks and papers astray, like they had just been simply shoved inside without a second thought. He takes several minutes to go through his stuff, until he eventually pulls out his graded tests. There are a lot of red marks on a lot of the questions, many question marks on his responses, and the grade range of all of them go from an F to a low C.

He reaches over and takes them, filing through the different marks and taking a look at the answers. Some of them appear to be guesses, while some look like genuine attempts — some have several answers bubbled in, or circled, then hastily erased in favor of new answers. The handwriting starts out neat, but quickly turns into scribbles as it goes on. There are doodles across the corners of the pages — little, swirly designs, tiny trees and flowers, and even sketches of owls. 

"So," Bokuto asks. "What's the verdict?"

"Hm?" 

When he looks up, Bokuto's giving him a sheepish look. His smile is small, less bright, and borders on self-deprecating. He looks out of place as he shuffles in his seat. He crosses his legs and brings them to his chest like he's trying to hide himself. "I'm bad, right?"

" _Bad?_  "

"At this. Grades. I'm not very smart, am I?"

His mouth opens, and then shuts immediately. He's silenced by the look in Bokuto's eyes — he can tell that he really, truly believes what he's saying about himself. There's a feeling in the air that overwhelms him. Seeing Bokuto without his usual exuberant outlook on life, and his confidence, is . . . strange. And it bothers him.

(It bothers him a lot.)

"You're not—you're not bad, " he urges. "I . . . I—who said that you're _bad?_ "

"A lot of people," Bokuto mumbles. "Teachers. Konoha."

"Well," he says, and huffs angrily, "ignore them. I'm your teacher now. And you're not stupid. You just need to learn how to find the right answer."

"I don't know how to find the right answer."

He slams the papers down onto the floor and spreads them out, giving Bokuto a determined look. "You  _can._  And you will. That's why I'm going to teach you."

When Bokuto smiles this time, there's a little more light in it.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't realize how long he's been explaining English to Bokuto until he glances over at the alarm clock on his desk and notices the time. It's been several hours.

"Are you hungry now?" he suddenly asks, startling Bokuto, who had been working through conjunctions. 

"What?" Bokuto says, a little louder than needed, and then composes himself. "Oh. Food? Yeah. What do you have?"

He shrugs with one shoulder, because honestly, he doesn't know. "Let's go see," he says, rising to his feet.

Bokuto joins him and the two of them make their way into the kitchen. The kitchen is connected to the dining room and the living room, and the open floor plan makes Bokuto whistle. He gazes up at the tall ceilings and walls and kicks his feet against the slick wooden floor. While he walks towards the fridge to see what their options are, Bokuto wanders into the main area, and he hears the telltale squeaking of their leather couch. Then, a tiny, muffled giggle.

Rolling his eyes, he just opens the fridge. There is never a whole lot inside their fridge, and today is no exception. There is, however, a small container in the front with a label on it: Dinner. He takes it out and observes its contents — just fish and rice. There's enough for both of them, at least, as long as he rations his portion. He opens the top and walks over to the microwave, because he doesn't feel like trying to fiddle with the other fancy and scary-looking appliances. He doesn't want to look like a fool in front of Bokuto.

"Y'know," said boy calls from the main area, as he puts the food into the microwave and presses the right buttons, "your house is really . . . empty."

"Oh?" he calls back. He already knows, though. There is very little furniture apart from what is necessary, and the same goes for decorations and even food. Every inch of the house is spotless. The only decorations on the walls are a single painting gifted to his mother by a distant relative, and professional family photos. The wooden floor seems to go on for miles. The hallways feel impossibly long. The house has always felt big and small and big and small.

"Maybe it's just because your parents aren't here," Bokuto goes on, and he figures he's been talking for a few moments while he's been thinking, "but this seems like a big house for just three people."

"My family is more on the minimalist side," he says, watching the food spin. "They aren't around often, either."

"So it's just you?"

"Yes." The microwave beeps. He takes it out and feels the meat. He puts it back in. "Just me."

Bokuto is quiet for a moment. The leather squeaks a little more. "My house is small, but it might just be because we have so much stuff."

He perks up a bit. "Oh, really?" He doesn't take his eyes away from the microwave.

"Yeah," he replies, and he hears a small laugh. "There's a lot of people in it, too, so we kind of just . . .  _accumulate_  . . . items. Things. My aunt has a lot of clothes."

He tries to think of his mother's closet. It's full of browns and blacks and reds. Mostly business-type clothing.

"My aunt tries to donate a lot of her clothes but she just ends up buying more later. She passes them down to my cousins, but I don't think they really like her sense of fashion." Bokuto snorts, and he hears him rise to his feet. "My cousins steal clothes from each other a lot. And they like to steal my shirts, too."

He tries to imagine what his life would be like if he had siblings. He imagines it would be relatively the same, and that he and his supposed sibling would rarely speak to one another. Perhaps they would compete — compete to see who was the better scholar, or the better son.

The microwave beeps again. He takes the food out. "That sounds like fun," he says. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have siblings."

When he turns around, Bokuto is standing right there.

"Sounds like you're lonely, 'kaashi." 

He says it almost like a joke, but it's not. He doesn't bother to correct him on the name.

"Well," he says slowly, and holds out the plate of food to him, "it's been a lot less lonely as of late."

 

* * *

 

After they eat, they return back to his room to work on linear equations.

As it turns out, mathematics is Bokuto's worst subject.

"Ugh!" Bokuto all but shouts, very nearly tossing his pencil across the room. "This is dumb! I don't understand this."

"Don't get upset." He almost reaches out and touches him to comfort him, but aborts the movement at the last second. "You'll understand it." He thinks for a moment, twirling the pen between his fingers. "How about this: we'll work through it together. I'll draw it out, okay?"

Bokuto narrows his eyes. " . . . Okay."

He nods, and scoots closer to Bokuto so he can see what he's writing in the notebook. He crosses his legs and props the notebook up on one knee, and writes down two equations, one above the other. "So, substitution method," he starts. "Two linear equations, and we have to find their intersection point." He doesn't realize just how close he's scooted towards Bokuto until his knee almost overlaps the other's. "Um, we have to isolate a variable first. Which one do you think looks the easiest?"

Bokuto takes a moment, squinting his eyes and leaning forward. For a moment he wonders if he wears glasses or needs them, but that thought is quickly gone when the full head of Bokuto's hair brushes against his nose and cheek. It's surprisingly soft. 

"The y-variable?" Bokuto guesses.

Ah. Right. Math. "Yes," he says, a little quicker than he means to. "So, we subtract this value from itself, and then the other side." Bokuto is watching him write so intently. He hopes his hands aren't shaking. "So then the isolated value becomes the total. See? The y-variable equals one minus two-x."

"Oh," Bokuto says, and points towards where his pen had just written. His hands are resting on the paper, so his fingertips brush against his skin for a moment. As he leans forward, his shoulder is digging into his arm. "So it subtracts from both sides?"

"Y-yes." It's terribly warm. "Whatever you do to one side, you have to do to the other."

"Like equal rights."

An odd comparison. He raises his eyebrows, but sighs. "Sure. Like equal rights."

"Cool. What's next?"

"So . . ." It takes him a moment to refocus. "We have this new equation from the first one, right? So we're going to substitute the y-value in the second equation for this new one."

"Oh!" Bokuto gasps, like something's finally clicking.

He tries not to grin too hard. "Yes! Then, the equation will only have x-variables. Once we have only one variable, we can solve for it." He writes down the new equation below all the other work, and gestures to the parenthesis in the equation. "Do you think you can do this part?"

Bokuto doesn't reply with words. Instead, he takes the pen from his hand, and it's almost like slow motion the way it happens. His hand is left hovering in the air, as Bokuto leans over, not even bothering to take the notebook himself, and instead shoving himself into his space as he solves the next step of the problem. Bokuto does it correctly, and turns to him for approval, but he's still stuck ten seconds in the past.

"Akaashi?"

"Huh?"

"Did I do it right?"

He shakes his head to refocus, again. "Wh—oh! Yes! You did." He takes the pen back, and their hands don't touch this time. "So, um . . . we add the two x-variables together. One is negative, so it becomes negative three-x. We subtract the four from one side and the other — equal rights.Then we divide that negative three-x by itself and on the other side . . . and the answer comes out to X equals—"

He lifts his head to look at Bokuto before saying the answer, but when he does, their faces are suddenly so close together. Bokuto's wide-eyed and blinking rapidly, but he's frozen in place, his pen loosening in his grip. The notebook starts to slide from his knee.

"—negative 2 . . ."

There's an awkward silence where the two of them turn away from each other as fast as possible.

"Um," he tries, "do you understand it now?"

More silence. Bokuto scratches the back of his neck.

". . . Do you think you could show me another?"

He picks up the notebook and ignores how flamed his face feels.

"Sure. Yeah. Of course."

 

* * *

 

He texts his mother that Bokuto's gone the moment he walks out the door, and rushes back to his room after he's watched Bokuto walk all the way down his street from the window. He shuts the door behind him, locks it, then unlocks it for fear of his parents coming home and discovering it to be locked.

His heart is pounding. To distract himself, he squats down and starts to put his fallen papers and textbooks back into his backpack. His notebook pages with their notes had been torn out, and given to Bokuto. His folders are all in disarray. His textbooks are turned to random pages and have folds in the corner from them trying and failing to find bookmarks, then deciding to make them themselves.

(In the middle of solving an equation by himself, Bokuto had stopped for a moment to sketch a little barn owl into the back of his notebook. It's still there when he flips to it. There's even a little smiley face next to it.)

Once his room is clean, he goes to the kitchen to make sure nothing is out of order. The container the food had been, and their dishes, are all safely placed in the dishwasher, which is running loudly. The fridge door is shut. The microwave is clean. The counter tops are still spotless. All the cabinets are closed.

However, his breathing still feels quick. He walks into the main lounge and stares at the leather couch for a long time. There's nothing on it, but he still smooths his hands across it once or twice, giving it a pat for good measure. After he's made sure that everything in there is okay, he walks back into his room, and shuts the door with a sense of finality.

His face still feels warm. He lifts his hands and presses them to his cheeks, pushing them together. He doesn't want his parents to come home yet.

He's discovered something very, very problematic.

 

* * *

 

(He has to confirm it for himself.

In a rush of childish need, he pulls out his phone that night and Googles  _how do i tell if i have a crush?_

It takes him to a quiz. After several retakes (and embarrassingly,  _several_  different quizzes), the answers all come up the same.

As the big, bright  _Yes!_  bores into him, he feels a sense of dread wash over him.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i did just put a long-winded math problem into fanfiction.
> 
> the volleyball bag incident? another true story. except it was a backpack and my friend ended up tackling me to the ground after i threw it.
> 
> (note: i'm using [this guide](https://honyakukanomangen.tumblr.com/post/158152191363/japan-mens-high-school-volleyball-calendar) to try and help me with the accurate portrayal of volleyball clubs. despite my love and constant rereading of haikyuu, the mechanics of volleyball schedules are still an enigma.)
> 
> (another note: i'm also using celsius and the 24-hour clock in order to keep up with what japan uses. i live in america. ten degrees celsius is around fifty [according to my converter].)
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost sighs dreamily, out loud.
> 
> It has only been a day of this, and he's already completely over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well.
> 
> happy pride month
> 
> (tw for mentions of homophobia)

Surely a silly  _online_  quiz couldn't dictate his feelings for his closest friend—

— which is what he  _thought,_  before he walked up to said friend at the train station and very nearly halted in place. His steps faltered like a glitch in a video game for a moment, and it took a lot for him to be able to keep his neutral face, especially while Bokuto was smiling at him like that.

Before, it was easy to just bask in the warmth of Bokuto's presence. Now, he can feel the exact palpitation of his heart. Now, he can feel the uncomfortable awareness of the flush on the back of his neck. Now, everything he had felt before is just amplified tenfold. He can't even look at Bokuto without the awful, gooey realization digging deep into his soul, reminding him of just what Bokuto is to him, at every passing moment. 

(He has never really had a crush on anyone before.)

"I have a good feeling about today's math quiz," Bokuto suddenly says, and even his voice is giving him chills. He isn't sure why people hype up crushes, if  _this_  is what it's all about. The anxiety that's clawing at his throat is pretty much unbearable.

"Mm," he tries, clearing his throat to avoid any embarrassing voice cracks. He does his best to keep himself rigid. "Why is that?"

Bokuto scoffs, and then laughs. The train rolls to a stop in front of them, and stepping onto it feels like a death sentence. "Because of you, of course!" he replies, having no idea that his words send an arrow right through his heart. "You helped me out a  _lot_  the other day." Bokuto then turns his face to him and gives him the most dazzling, genuine smile he's ever seen. "I think I might actually pass! Or — well, uh, get above an F . . . "

He doesn't reply, not right away at least, because he feels like such a fool — he feels so  _stupid_  about how his voice feels like it'll die on him at any second, and Bokuto had barely even said anything to him. He's thinking back to that day, how close they were when he was working through the substitution method with him. His hands are trembling as they grip the top of the rail and even though he wants to look away from Bokuto, he  _can't._  It's like Bokuto is a black hole that he keeps getting sucked into, so strong that not even the mightiest soul can escape him. But he isn't soulless, isn't completely colorless, because while a black hole cannot reflect light Bokuto is the light himself.

(He had known all this before. Now, he's painfully aware of what a  _crush_  is. Dread crawls up the bottom of his stomach, up to his throat, and settles there, anxious and warm.)

"I think you'll be able to do it," he replies, way too late, when Bokuto's already forgotten about the subject and the train is rolling up to their stop. He forces himself to look at his friend, and he finds that giving him a smile is easier than he would think. "Do you remember the method I taught you? Just work your way through the steps."

"Uh . . . subtract from . . . both sides?"

"Subtract from both sides."

Bokuto gives him another brilliant smile. He feels like he might as well have hearts floating around his head. The conductor announces their stop and the train doors slide open, and as they walk out Bokuto is rambling about something else unrelated, but he can only walk behind him, and stare at the form of his back. He watches just how tall Bokuto is, how broad his shoulders seem to be for being only a second-year. He watches the shifting of the fabric of his uniform around his arms as Bokuto swings his arms around with his speech.

He almost sighs dreamily, out loud.

It has only been a day of this, and he's already completely over it.

 

* * *

 

He wonders if he was just as useless before his big revelation.

He tries to pay attention in class, he really does, because his teacher has finally moved onto some material that he isn't completely familiar with, but as he taps his pencil against his desk in attempt to ground himself, he feels like he's floating. His mind is elsewhere — too focused on the image of wild white hair and gold eyes. He can feel the heat on the back of his neck, no matter how hard he tries to will it away. His desk is shaking from how hard he's bouncing his leg and every time he manages to get himself to stop, he picks it back up again a minute later. His blood is rushing in his ears and his heart feels like it's trying to jump from his throat. All he can think about is Bokuto. He's daydreaming, imagining impossible scenarios and then getting annoyed at himself when he finally snaps back to it, even if it's only for a few seconds. He thinks about Bokuto, and his hands, and how he dramatically gestures every detail of his sentences because he believes every word matters. He thinks about Bokuto, and him playing volleyball, and how he's akin to an angel when he's in the air, arm poised above his head in anticipation of a spike. He thinks about Bokuto, and the way he smiles, and how soft his gaze seemed to be when they were sitting side-by-side, shoulders touching, in the false security of his bedroom—

His knee suddenly smacks against the bottom of his desk. The teacher pauses, mouth falling open in silence, and the entirety of the classroom turns to look at him.

"Sorry," he says quietly, and flips to another page in his notebook. Nobody bothers giving him a second glance, and when the teacher goes on, a not-so-subtle sigh of relief escapes him.

(Maybe he's reading too much into everything.)

 

* * *

 

During lunch, being around Bokuto is nearly unbearable. The sun is high above them and yet Bokuto is still the brightest star there.

He's quiet, quieter than he usually is, while his friends chatter amongst themselves. The topics change as quick as lightning, and while any other time he'd be able to keep up with them and their quick remarks, he finds himself sitting in silence, hardly listening. He wants desperately to  _say_  something, to speak up, to reply to anything, because he wants Bokuto's eyes on him, his words directed at him, his smiles because of  _him._  At the same time, he wants to avoid it all. He wants to get up and run away, to hide. His heart pounds so hard it's practically painful. 

Every part of his arm is touching Bokuto's side. He almost falls when Bokuto leans up over the table to swat at Konoha's face, yelling something, but everything is so muted in his ears that he merely catches himself without saying a word. He feels like he's underwater, and he's trying everything to keep from floating back up to the top, to keep from digging himself a deeper hole than he's already fallen into. He's realized it; it doesn't mean he has to accept it.

(What will his  _parents_  think?)

Crushes are just simple things, right? Just a mere, sporadic infatuation that won't last for longer than a few weeks, at the most. It'll be annoying at first, with the way he feels his entire body standing to attention whenever Bokuto is even near him, but eventually he'll be over it. Eventually Bokuto will go back to being just a friend.

"Hey, 'kaashi!"

He flinches. "Yes?" His pitch is way too high to play it off as casual.

"What do you think?"

Oh God. He blanches, his face going pale. "About what?" he asks.

Unfortunately for him, all of his friends are  _annoyingly_  observant at the worst times.

"What were you thinking about, Akaashi- _kun?_  " Konoha asks, with a tone in his voice that makes his heart race even faster, more out of anxiety than anything else.

He swallows. "Nothing," he says, too quickly, and then, "Just spacing out. Sorry. What were you guys talking about?" He finally manages to get his tone back to normal, even if all his energy has gone into squeezing his palms around the fabric of his knees.

Bokuto's eyes turn to him then, slanted and full of concern. He feels like he's choking — on the air, maybe, or even his own spit. He straightens his stance and resists the urge to pat at his hair. Is it sticking up? In his eyes? Does he look weird?

Bokuto opens his mouth to say something, but Konoha beats him to the punch, looking somewhere off above Komi's head. "Yukie?" he asks, and everyone else turns to where he's looking at, watching said girl wander up to them. Her steps are slow and almost mechanical, like she's forcing herself to walk. Her shoulders are slumped, and not with the casual sleepiness she seems to carry around with her everywhere. Her head is facing the ground when she arrives.

"What's up,  _Yukippe?_  " Bokuto asks curiously. "You never come sit with us."

There's a few moments of silence, and then Yukie sniffles. The whole group springs into action.

"Huh?"

"What's wrong?"

"Did something happen?"

"Why are you crying?"

As the group bombards her with question after question, Yukie lifts her fists to her eyes and starts rubbing furiously. She's doing everything in her power to keep her expression neutral, but her lip is wobbling, and the tears just keep coming.

"Sorry," she says, after taking a breath. "Sorry," again, her voice cracking. She sniffs, and lowers her eyes. Her eyes are rimmed with red and her usual calm expression is ridden with grief. "I just have—I have no one else to sit with at lunch anymore." Her voice is soft but it shakes with despair. It's such a simple sentence and yet it completely wracks the entire group with such utter sadness that they all quiet down, all slowly look at one another, the realization filling their heads like melting lava, the knowledge burning into their mind.

"Well." Bokuto is the first one to break the silence. His voice is thicker, but not as thick as the air around them. "Come sit with us." He scoots over, making room for Yukie to quietly sit in the space Bokuto once occupied. 

"What happened?" Komi asks, his hands gripping the edge of the bench.

"I—" Yukie starts, then cuts herself off. As she twiddles her thumbs underneath the table, the group leans in to hear. "I came out to my friends today." Nobody says anything, and just waits for her to go on. It takes her several moments to compose herself, and even then, when she opens her mouth, everything comes spilling out again. "They called me  _disgusting,_  " she says all in one breath, gritting her teeth. "They told me not to hang out with them anymore." She leans forward, throwing her arms on the table and burying her face in them. "I  _trusted_  them."

He is not used to seeing Fukurodani's manager unleashing so much emotion. While it's unsettling, something in her story alights his mind.  _Came out._  The two words echo over and over on his mind. However, he does not voice this aloud. He says nothing at all, and just continues to stare. He isn't sure he knows her well enough to even provide comfort, and especially not when he has experienced anything of the sort.

After Yukie lets out a few more sobs, Bokuto makes a weird sound in his throat. Everyone turns to look at him, and they all blanch at the expression on his face. It's cold, and dark, and unlike anything anyone has ever seen from him. He's still a light, still a star, but rather than brighter he has only gotten hotter. "They  _what?_  " he finally asks, tone rough like it's scraping over his teeth, like he can barely get the words out without shaking. His fists are clenched.

Yukie lifts her head a bit, and brushes a few strands of hair away from where they stick to her wet face. She sniffles again, and wipes at her nose with her finger. Sarukui wordlessly hands her a few napkins. She nods as a  _thank you_  in his direction, and looks back at Bokuto. "At first they weren't . . . mad," she says, struggling over the last word. "They were surprised, and then started making jokes about it. Then they said they hoped I wouldn't flirt with them, and . . . " She glances down. He has never seen her look so devastated. "Then it just—it just kept going downhill. They realized I was being  _serious_. About being a les—" She cuts herself off abruptly. "About being gay," she amends, shaking. "I . . . " Her mouth hangs open for a few moments before she just snaps it shut, her shoulders falling loose of their tension.

More silence. Bokuto reaches out and puts an arm around her shoulder, bringing her into the crook of his neck and holding her there. She chortles, and gives a little smile, but her face is still wet, and there are still a few straying tears here and there. 

"Fuck 'em," Konoha then says helpfully.

Yukie glances up at him in shock.

"Yeah, you heard me," he scoffs. " _Fuck. Them._  You have us. I'll beat those girls up if they try anything—"

"Konoha!" Komi exclaims.

"What?" Konoha says. "I believe in equality. If they try to start anything—" he points his thumb back at himself with a grin, "—I have your back."

"Me too!" Komi says, grinning.

"Same," Sarukui pipes up, saying something for the first time in a while.

"Mm-hmm," he then says, for the sake of voicing something aloud. He has felt awkward this whole time, but he doesn't want to seem rude, especially not with how much this girl seems to mean to all of his friends.

(He hopes he can soon consider her a friend, too.)

"We all have your back," Bokuto says, softer than the others. He tightens his grip around her shoulders, shakes her a little to make her laugh. "We are always gonna be here for you, 'kay? And trust me. I get it." He puts his free hand flat on top of his chest, and spreads his fingers out wide. "I know what it's like to trust someone with one of the most important things about you, and for them to just . . . well. Completely reject you."

Yukie smiles again. She's stopped crying. Her arms go limp in front of her. "It's okay," she says, and before anyone can protest, goes on, "Besides, it's not like they were as important to me as you guys."

" _Yukippe,_  you're gonna make me cry!"

"Would you  _stop_  with that nickname already?"

"Not a chance!" Bokuto wails dramatically. "It's sticking! It's stuck! _Yukippe!_  "

"No!"

" _Yukippe!_  "

Yukie shakes herself out of Bokuto's grip and starts swatting at his arms. "I hate you."

"No you don't. You just told us how much you  _looooove_  all of us."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

"You can't ever get rid of us,  _Yukippe,_  " says Bokuto, and the group gives their various hums of approval.

Yukie looks at all of them, and then smiles, brighter than before. "Well . . . thanks." She gives a one-shouldered shrug, and when nobody is paying any particular attention, reaches out to snag a piece of fish from Komi's lunch box.

"Wh— _hey!_  "

"You snooze, you lose!"

"H—Bokuto not you too!"

 

* * *

 

Yukie seems to have composed herself completely by the time after-school practice rolls around. Everyone is bustling around talking about tournaments and the like, but all he can focus on is her. Her story keeps repeating itself in his mind. She  _came out,_  as  _something._

Before, his only worry was that his crush was Bokuto, who was his closest friend. It hadn't occurred to him until now that his crush is also a boy. That's supposed to  _mean_  something, and yet that realization hadn't dawned on him before.

He had never given much thought to his sexuality before, but now, it's all that is on his mind. He likes Bokuto. He likes a boy. He likes  _boys._

(Does he still like  _girls_  too?

Just thinking about his parents' reactions makes him feel like he is going to black out.)

All of his friends and fellow teammates are discussing important things, like qualifiers, and games, but his mind is elsewhere. His thoughts start breaking down — Yukie is like him, he likes boys, he can't focus on volleyball, his parents are going to be upset, his parents were right about him being unable to play volleyball, he can't  _focus—_

 _God._  He's going to have a panic attack in the middle of practice.

He promptly walks over to the bench and starts chugging from his water bottle, the sound behind him dulling itself into nothing. His heart is pounding so hard and he can feel the veins in his wrists thumping. He's swallowing so much that he feels like he might choke but he doesn't stop, only pauses for a breath moment to dig his teeth into the edge of the open bottle and take a deep breath. Once he's drained his water bottle completely, he starts to slam it back down onto the bench, but just before it can hit the surface, he pauses, and gently lets the bottom touch down, right in the ring of condensation that had been left behind.

"You must've been thirsty, huh?" 

Bokuto's voice from behind him startles him, but he hopes that the way he flinches isn't too obvious. He slowly turns around, reaching up to flatten a part of his hair without realizing. "Uh . . . yeah," he says lamely, the words falling flat on his tongue.

Bokuto is quiet for a moment. He's clenching his fists and then loosening their grip every few moments, like he's nervous. Or anticipating something. He takes a breath, and then: "Will you come toss to me?"

He realizes how long it's been since he's actually  _asked._  For the past few weeks, he has just done it, automatically, like it's their routine. It's odd. "Of course . . . Why are you asking?"

"Well." Bokuto bites his lip.  _Wow._  "I dunno. You've looked kinda . . .  _off_  today, I guess. I didn't wanna force you if you didn't wanna . . . "

"I do want to," he says immediately, and looks down when Bokuto looks up. "It's okay. I'll toss to you."

Another moment, and then Bokuto grins. He spins the volleyball he has in his hands, then throws it into his arms. He catches it, startling for a moment, and looks up into Bokuto's eyes. Suddenly, he looks a lot clearer (and a lot  _closer_  ) than he had been before. He can't help but notice their height difference, again.

"Perfect! Let's go! I have a good feeling about my spikes today!"

He's jumping up in the air again, hooting like the owl his team is named after. Konoha jumps up and gives him a high five, and when he passes by Yukie he gives her a high five too. Suddenly, the whole atmosphere has been lifted up from its serious doom minutes earlier. It doesn't even matter that it's cloudy outside, or that it looks like it's going to rain soon. They have the sun right there, in their own gymnasium. 

His name is Bokuto Koutarou, and he likes him so, so much.

 

* * *

 

His way of thinking is odd.

He finds himself  _okay_  with his crush, and also  _not_  okay with it. There are so many aspects that go either way that mulling over them seems to do more harm than good. He's  _tired_  of panicking over it, over everything. 

Maybe he should just accept it, and deal with the consequences, rather than trying to forcefully stop a train that's already in motion. Newton's first law, obviously. Although he's not sure what the external force would have to be.

(His parents, perhaps. Or the manifestation of disapproval and rejection.)

He tries not to let his worries show on his face too much. Bokuto is oddly perceptive, and for some reason, as they're walking home together, he keeps glancing over, and at his face, especially. The constant looks start to make him feel self-conscious. He lifts a hand to wipe at his cheek, suddenly feeling some phantom dust or speck. When he pulls his hand away, there's nothing.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

When he looks up, Bokuto is staring down at his hand, his eyebrows furrowed as if in deep thought. Bokuto then comes to a stop, and so does he. His hand is still hovering in the air, unmoving, and Bokuto takes his own hand and slides it up over his, pressing their palms together and splaying their fingers out wide.

"Whoa!" Bokuto exclaims, turning their hands so they're upright, and in-between them. "Your hands are bigger than mine."

His fingers are trembling now. He feels like his palms are sweating, and he just hopes Bokuto pulls away soon so he won't feel them. "It's—my fingers. I have long fingers."

"Huh . . . " Bokuto still has their hands together, and now he's moving them around like he's trying to study them. He feels like he's going to fall over at any moment; this casual touch is killing him, and he wonders — does Bokuto  _know?_  Does he know anything about what he's doing? What he's doing to him? What he's caused and done?

Bokuto pulls away and he misses his touch, and curses himself from how much he had wished it away seconds ago. He looks down at his own hand, wiggles his fingers a few times, and then lets it go slack, dangling in the air like it had never moved in the first place, had never rearranged his heart like it was nothing.

"Hm," he says with finality, and starts walking again.

Bokuto doesn't even wait up. He jogs to catch up with him again, and stares at him, but doesn't bother asking. Bokuto Koutarou is an enigma. He figures that if he tried to understand, he'd just get more confused. So he accepts instead.

Accepts Bokuto's strangeness, accepts his new life, accepts his crush.

With Bokuto's back to him, he's free to make whatever expression he wants. He isn't sure what face he's making now, with the heat that spreads across it, or what his emotions have morphed his mouth into, but his thoughts ring with determination. His fists clench at his sides. He very nearly stops walking altogether, but he can do it this time. After a deep breath, he stares into the back of Bokuto's head so hard he's sure the other can feel his gaze, and he thinks:  _I like you. I like you. I like you._

It echoes so clearly he fears that he's almost said it out loud. But Bokuto's still walking, still messing with his hands, and gives no indication that he's even heard him speak at all. He lets out a breath of relief, and that is what gets Bokuto's attention. He whirls around, with eyebrows raised up.

"Why're you walking so slow? You tired?" And without waiting for a reply, Bokuto slows down his steps to match his pace with his, not even caring about how slow they're going now. 

The whole way back, he doesn't even think once about speeding up. He prefers taking things slow.

 

* * *

 

[  _10:10_  ] bokuto 🦉: !!!!!!!!!!!

[  _10:10_  ] bokuto 🦉: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[  _10:11_  ] bokuto 🦉: AKAKSHI

[  _10:11_  ] bokuto 🦉: I DID TI!!! I DID IT

[  _10:12_  ] bokuto 🦉: I PASSED MY MATH QUIZ!!!

[  _10:12_  ] bokuto 🦉: IT WAS ALL THANKS TO YOU!!!

 

[  _10:14_  ] i'm proud of you.

[  _10:14_  ] :)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay people be like: hands
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
> 
> . . . Or something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy last day of pride month

Now that the hard part's over, he thinks that the worst is being completely in the dark about how Bokuto feels.

There are still so many aspects to Bokuto that he's blind to. He feels  _greedy,_  with the way he wants to ask and learn and know. He wants to pick apart every one of Bokuto's expressions and every one of Bokuto's statements to find some sort of hidden meaning. He wants to pour himself into every conversation, every interaction. He wants to know just what Bokuto is feeling every time he hangs around him. He wants to know what goes on in his head, and what he thinks of him. He wants to know if he thinks he's pretty, or cool, or interesting.

But he reads too much into everything, now; so much that he feels like a fool. He feels guilty for trying to force something he knows he cannot have. And yet, he wants friendship to be more. He wants those casual touches to linger and tighten. He wants Bokuto's touch to mark him like a sunburn.

Even with his habit of over-analyzing, he cannot deny that there must be a part of Bokuto that likes him. At least a little bit, as a friend, if anything. There would be no reason for him to blow up his phone with photos of cute birds he sees outside his window every morning. There would be no reason for him to eagerly take the train to and from school every day. There would be no reason for him to ask to stay after practice, alone, to spike . . . 

His thoughts are filled with nothing but Bokuto as he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He's just gotten out of the shower, and his hair is still dripping wet, the droplets rolling into his eyes and falling down his face. He lifts his towel to pat at his skin, and tousles it through his hair for a good minute or two. When he's done, he wraps the towel around his neck and leans in closer over the sink, his eyes going lidded as his gaze unfocuses and refocuses itself. He reaches up to push at his cheeks, spreading his lips out wide. He tilts his chin up to look at his nose, and then turns his head to the side to run his fingers along the side of his jaw. He tries to look at himself from all different angles, tries to imagine how Bokuto looks at him every day. The more he stares, the more he hates it.

A violent knock on his door startles him out of what he was doing. His hands drop to the counter and he grips the edge of it, face going hot in mortification, like he was caught doing something terrible. The locked door knob twists a few times, to no avail, and the door shakes as the person on the other side continues to try getting in.

Another knock. "Keiji?" comes his mother's voice. "Are you in there?"

His heart is still pounding. Does she know what he's thinking about?  _Who_  he's thinking about?

When he doesn't answer right away, the shaking of the door gets more intense.

"Yes!" he calls, his voice cracking on the end. He clears his throat, and tries again. "Yes. Sorry."

"Why didn't you answer me the first time?"

He hesitates, and quickly pulls out his toothbrush, turning on the sink to get the bristles wet. "I was brushing my teeth." He isn't sure if she's going to try and force the door open again or not, but it's better to be prepared rather than anything else.

This time, his mother is the one that is silent for far too long. He hears her make a quiet, noncommittal noise. "You've just been in there for a while," she says, her voice sounding odd. "I was worried something happened."

His heart drops to his stomach. He puts his toothbrush down and mechanically moves to slide his uniform pants up and over his hips. He doesn't bother putting a shirt on, because he thinks it'll take too much time, so instead he wraps his towel around his shoulders. After taking a deep breath, he unlocks the door and slides it open. His mother is still standing there, with a strange expression on her face. Her eyes look glassy, rather than the cold, hard steel they usually are. 

"Oh," she says when she sees him. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a once-over. "You still aren't dressed?"

He instantly feels ashamed of himself, and embarrassed for even opening the door in the first place. The look in her eyes gives him the semblance of hope that maybe she sees him as more than just a tool for her own success, but she presents her entire body differently, like she's pretending. Like he's not even worth being sincere around. She looks taller when she crosses her arms; she looks meaner when she looks down at him like that.

But instead of commenting on his appearance again, she goes, "You've been acting differently lately. I wondered maybe if you were sick."

Sometimes he's gotten sick from overworking himself, but usually he's able to keep that under wraps. Just like his mother, he's good at pretending, too. However, this time, he doesn't feel any sort of ailment or pain. He's a wholly different kind of sick — one that he can only pray his parents never catch up on.

He worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "I don't feel sick."

"Hm."

His mother puts the back of her hand against his forehead and it takes every muscle in his body to keep from flinching. He just closes his eyes, squeezes them out of reflex, and just waits for her touch to leave. It does, but only for a moment, and it returns, this time with the palm of her hand. Rather than cold, her hands are warm, and hot, and terrifying. They're uncomfortable. When she takes her hand away, he has to fight for self-control, because all he wants to do is rub cold water all over his face in an attempt to remove her traces. He can feel her scented lotion on his skin. 

"You don't feel warm . . . " His mother looks down at her own hand, and then narrows her eyes at him. "Hurry up and get ready or else you'll be late for school. You've had perfect attendance so far; you don't want to mess that up." Either he's reading too much into it, or she's phrasing it like a threat — like she  _dares_  him to be sick. If he's sick, that means he has to be taken care of. 

She stares at him for a moment longer, makes another one of her sounds, and walks away. He watches her leave, listens to her footsteps, before deciding it's safe to shut the door. When he does, he locks it once more without a second thought. He even turns the knob a few times to make sure it's truly locked, then unlocks it only to re-lock it again.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he puts all of his weight into his palms as he leans forward, watching himself in the mirror again. He glances side to side, trying and failing to watch his own eyes moving. He sticks out his tongue and runs it along the edge of his teeth. He flares his nostrils and tilts his chin up.

With an angry huff, he turns on the cold water and splashes it onto his face.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto does not text him all morning.

Nor does he show up to meet him at the train.

He tries not to let his anxiety get the better of him — _is he avoiding me? did he find out? is he grossed out? does he not want to be my friend anymore? did something happen to him?_  — so he suppresses all of the thoughts racing through his mind by blasting music through his earbuds (which, strangely, have not been used in quite some time; he never had a reason to use them before and after school, lately). Instead, he slowly starts to feel disappointment, and the guilt wracks him because of it. He's standing there upset because Bokuto isn't around, while the other could be sick, or hurt, or  _something._

(And yet . . . he spent so much time in the bathroom this morning making sure his hair looked okay.)

He's absentmindedly brushing his hair with his fingers now, even though his friend isn't there to see him. The train is as crowded as always, but it feels so empty and cold around him. He knows he's being dramatic, but almost every day of his high school life has been spent with this boy. He feels anxious to see him, and his brain starts to supply him with suggestions; maybe he's just late, and he'll be there later at lunch, or even at practice. 

(Maybe he'll still get to see him today, and he'll make a comment like  _wow, your hair looks so nice today, Akaashi!_  with his voice stumbling over his name like always, like he isn't sure how to say it properly.)

 _Stop revolving your entire life around him,_  he tells himself, turning up the volume on his music, to the point where it starts to make his head pulse with the force, but even with that he cannot help but feel the pounding of his heart. The music drowns out the noise but not the sensations. His shoulders feel cold without the brush of Bokuto's. His mouth feels tense from not opening it to make a remark, or laugh, or smile. His jaw is clenched and it takes him a good few seconds to release the tension. His fingers tighten around the pole instead.

He never knew a train ride could feel so lonely.

 

* * *

 

When he arrives at school, Yukie tells him Bokuto is sick.

In the back of his mind, he had figured this was the case, but hearing it confirmed wipes away all of his prior anxieties, and instead replaces them with a new one:  _is he okay?_

They're standing by the lockers before the first bell. Every day, it is usually Bokuto who hangs around him before they must separate to their different classes, but he's alone today. He wonders if it's noticeable how out of place he seems.

Yukie pulls out her phone and gives a sigh. Over her shoulder, he spots a group of girls whispering to one another and pointing at her, and hopes that she isn't paying attention. "He gets sick  _all_  the time," she says, pulling up a text message thread between her and Bokuto. Most of the messages consist of Bokuto sending her photos and other sporadic messages, but the most recent is a what looks like a very poor attempt at typing followed by the word  _sick_  and then can't make practice. "He sucks at typing anyway, but judging from the pattern of his keysmashes . . . I'd say it's pretty bad."

His breathing catches. It must be noticeable.

"He's probably fine!" Yukie says quickly, locking her phone and putting it in her shirt pocket. "He gets sick a lot and always tries to just ignore it so every time he gets sick it just gets worse." Her explanation is not helping in the slightest. "He may get sick a lot but he recovers fast. He's got his family taking care of him, anyway. I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow."

Now, it's not Bokuto not coming back that worries him. Bokuto's  _sick_. His  _friend_ is sick. And he didn't even know. This entire time, he's just been focused on himself and his feelings. He's stuck at school, while Bokuto must be at home, all alone, suffering . . . 

(She said he has his family taking care of him, but are they  _really?_  Or are they like his own parents, who just leave a bottle of painkillers at his bedside table and don't come back?)

In order to compose himself, he takes a deep, slow breath. When he exhales, it's a little shaky. "Thanks for letting me know. I was worried when he didn't show up this morning."

Yukie pauses, and tilts her head. "He didn't text you?"

" . . . No."

"Hm." She pulls out her phone again, unlocks it to look at the lock screen, then puts it back in her pocket. "I bet he texted me to say he wouldn't be able to come to practice and then immediately passed out."

"When did he send that message?" he asks. He can't help himself.

Yukie pulls out her phone for the third time. She scrolls a bit, then laughs. "Four in the morning."

Ah. That heals the stinging of the wound in his heart a bit. "I—" As soon as he opens his mouth to speak, the bell above them rings across the school. Other students start to quickly shuffle to their classrooms.

Yukie looks back to him and smiles. "See you during lunch, Akaashi- _kun!_  " She always has that sleepy-sounding voice, but now it sounds a little more . . . upbeat. 

"Right," he says too quickly, and when she walks away, he exhales again. "Right," he says again, more quietly, and to himself. The groups of students that had been hanging around the shoe lockers all squeeze past him in their hurry to get to their respective classes. He feels rooted to his spot. He feels like he cannot move until Bokuto tells him to have a good day, and that he'll see him later. Instead there's only the background noise of his chattering peers. 

The warning bell rings, and he feels wrong as he picks up his bag and walks to his class.

 

* * *

 

_Stop being so dramatic._

He doesn't bother trying to pay attention in class. His teacher is talking about quizzes and tests, but whatever. He'll pass it, whatever it is. And if his parents get angry at him if he doesn't do well enough, then so be it. He doesn't care.

_He's only sick. Stop making such a fuss._

He leans forward and pushes his hair back with his hands. All this time getting ready this morning and Bokuto isn't even here to see it.

_He'll be here tomorrow. Your entire life doesn't revolve around him._

Except it _does,_  doesn't it? He's so pathetic that he can't even  _function_  without Bokuto around him. He calls Bokuto the sun, but he  _really_  is that — he's just a small, insignificant planet sentenced to circle around him for eternity. An endless cycle until it inevitably ends in Bokuto exploding and taking him down with him. He doesn't think he'd mind it all that much, and maybe that's the problem.

_You've only known him for a few months. You have no claim on him. Stop being so clingy. It's not a big deal that he texted her first and not you._

He feels like he's going through withdrawals, which may be an exaggeration, but Bokuto is his closest friend. He feels lonely without the other to come and hang around him every time there's a break in between classes. He feels lonely without the sensation of looking forward to seeing him. He isn't there, he isn't at school today, and he doesn't even really know where his house is; it isn't like he could just pop in and see how he's doing. 

_You could just text him, but you like the feeling of being in pain more, don't you?_

But would he even answer? Is he so sick that he is just sleeping all day? Is he too weak to move? He hopes and hopes that his family is keeping him hydrated, and safe and tucked in. He imagines Bokuto with a red face, nose covered in snot, tissues surrounding him with some thrown towards the trash bin that could be in the corner of his room. He's all curled up on his bed, in his mind, hair even messier than it normally is. Maybe a younger cousin comes in and hands him a glass of water. Takes his temperature. Bokuto tries to say thank you but he starts coughing, and then makes a noise out of disgust. Maybe his cousin laughs. The thought makes him smile.

(Then he imagines himself in the cousin's place, and he thinks the heat that spreads across his face could rival Bokuto's fever.)

 _Stop being so dramatic,_  he tells himself, again, and takes out his notebook to distract himself. However, instead of writing down the notes that his teacher puts onto the board, he starts to sketch along the margins of the paper: volleyballs bouncing, and a small, smiling sun in the corner.

 

* * *

 

Lunch time is more bearable. When he walks out to the courtyard, he's annoyed by the sudden chill in the air, but the smiling and waving from his fellow teammates at their usual table warms him up a bit. He's suddenly reminded that while Bokuto is his  _closest_  friend, he isn't his  _only_  friend.

(Even if he feels like the others may not like him as much.)

"Hey!" Konoha yells, and turns to say something to Komi.

Yukie just rolls her eyes and scoots, patting the seat next to her. He pauses before it, and looks at her for a moment. 

"I saved it for you," she says. "Kept it warm. Sit!"

He's not sure why he's hesitating, but he sets down his bag and moves to sit down next to her. It really is warm, compared to the chilly wind in the air. The sky is cloudy and the sun is gone. Konoha has both his own jacket and what looks like Sarukui's wrapped around his shoulders. His teeth are chattering as he talks.

"Are you really  _that_  cold?" Komi interrupts whatever Konoha had been saying.

The other gives him a blank stare. "What gave it away?" he asks sarcastically.

"Are you  _sure_  you aren't cold-blooded?"

"Are you sure you even know what cold-blooded  _means?_  "

"Do  _you?_  " 

Yukie furrows her eyebrows. "Doesn't it mean you just have cold blood?"

"I thought everything had warm blood," says Komi.

"Reptiles are cold-blooded, aren't they?"

"Like frogs!"

"Frogs aren't reptiles, Komi."

"What . . .  _huh!?_  Aren't they cold-blooded?"

"Well, I think so, but they aren't reptiles!"

"Hold on," Yukie says, pulling out her phone, "we learned about endothermy in class. I know this."

"Then why are you searching it up on your phone?" Konoha asks.

"Shh!"

He bites his lip for a moment, then decides to speak up. "Endothermy is when an animal is warm-blooded. I think the word you're looking for is ectothermy."

Yukie pauses and looks up, her eyes going wide. " _Ectothermy!_  " she yells, and throws her phone down onto her lap.

"And cold-blooded means that the animal takes on the temperature of their surroundings." When the rest of them give him blank looks, he bites back a laugh and goes on: "If the temperature is  _cold,_  the animal is cold. If it's  _hot,_  the animal is hot. Reptiles are cold-blooded. So are frogs, and those are amphibians."

Konoha pointedly looks at Komi and gestures over. "Amphibians. Frogs are  _amphibians,_  Komi. Not reptiles."

"Honest mistake!"

"Konoha, didn't you think that dinosaurs were ancestors of cats once?" Yukie asks.

" _Once!_  " Konoha all but shrieks, blushing in embarrassment. He shakes his head, his hair going wild with the motion. Then he points to him, and says, "See, aren't you glad we added Akaashi _-kun_  to our crew? Without him, we would've sat here for days arguing over this."

"It wasn't much of an argument," says Sarukui.

"I think Akaashi _-kun_  just likes seeing us lose our mind over pointless topics," Yukie then offers, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. She leans in towards him and nudges him with his elbow. "Don't you?"

He can't really lie about not finding their interactions amusing. He's not one to laugh often, but just sitting around them for the span of a few minutes is the most entertainment that he's had in an entire week. "Well . . . it sure is funny," he says honestly, giving them a soft smile. "But I felt obligated to say something once Komi _-san_  said frogs are reptiles."

Everyone else laughs, even Komi, although the latter's laughter is a bit delayed before he ends up giggling along with the rest of them. He even lets himself chuckle a bit, covering his mouth with his hand out of reflex. 

When the laughter dies down, there's a moment of silence. Then, Yukie lets out a sound that comes out as a gasp and a shout at the same time, and leans down to shuffle through her bag. She mutters to herself for a little bit before she finally pulls out a box. When she moves to lean back up, she bangs the top of her head against the table, and groans. Her hand immediately goes up to cover the area, and she curses.

"Oh, yikes," Konoha says, "are you okay?"

"Shit," Yukie says eloquently, and then plops the box down onto the table. "Yes," she then says, and goes to unwrap the ribbon that's keeping the box together. "I forgot I had this." As she starts to open the box, her face starts to turn pink, and her voice gets a bit softer. "I, uh . . . used to do this for my other friends a lot." She scratches at her cheek, and leans backwards a bit. Unfolding the box completely, she reveals around fifteen small sugar cookies. "I made some cookies! Well, my dad helped me. But still." Looking a bit embarrassed, she pushes the box to the center of the table and makes an aborted gesture towards them. "Well," she then says, and clears her throat, "have some."

Konoha, Komi, and Sarukui all glance at one another, with gleams in their eyes. Then, they all immediately, and rather violently, reach for the box of cookies. Konoha takes about four and Sarukui manages three, and the two start stealing from Komi, who only ended up with two.

"Hey!" Yukie scoffs, pulling the box back when they start to reach for more. "I made enough for all of us to share!"

"What, for six of us?" Konoha says around a mouthful of two cookies. "Fifteen divided by six is like, two and a half. It's a fight to the death around these here parts, Yukie."

Said girl rolls her eyes, and turns so she can hold out the box to him. "Here, Akaashi _-kun,_  " she says, smiling. "Take some! They're sugar cookies. I don't know if you really like sweets, but . . . " Her voice trails off, and she shrugs with one shoulder. When he doesn't immediately reach for any, she shakes the box a little, encouraging him.

Little does she know, he's the type that will eat just about anything. He doesn't really have a preference either way. He glances over to see how many the others have, and figures it's safe to take around two. One of them crumbles apart in his hands, so he eats that one first. It's delicious. There's even icing in the center!

His eyes go a little wide, and he nods at Yukie. He lifts his hand to wipe at the crumbs that gather at the corner of his mouth. "They're really good."

"Oh, thank  _God,_  " Yukie sighs, throwing an arm over her head. "I'm still kind of new to baking. My old friends were my guinea pigs to all my desserts." He notes the change in her tone as soon as she says  _old friends._  He may not know her very well, but he's glad that she seems to be doing better, hanging out with people who actually support her.

"Too bad Bokuto isn't here to have these," Komi says with a laugh. "I'm sure he would try to eat all of them!"

"Yeah, well, I'm saving some so I can give them to him tomorrow," Yukie says. "Sugar cookies are one of his favorites, right?"

"If you put literally  _anything_  in front of Bokuto, he'll inhale it," Sarukui says. 

Yukie snorts, and closes up the box. "Then I'll save the rest for him. It'll be a nice treat for when he starts to feel better."

"Practice is gonna be weird without him," Komi says.

"I know," Konoha sighs, licking his fingers free of icing. "We're gonna be made to work extra hard today, huh?"

Everyone glances at Yukie. She just gives a little shrug, and picks at the skin around her nails. "I dunno . . . "

"Alright, so that's a yes."

"I didn't  _say_  yes!"

"You always know what's going on! Like a witch."

"A  _witch?_  That doesn't even make sense."

"Aren't witches supposed to know everything?"

"No? Haven't you read  _Harry Potter?_  Those guys literally don't know anything at all."

He starts to drown out their bickering, and eats the second cookie alongside the rest of his lunch. The clouds are starting to part and some sunshine is leaking through. Despite the wind that soaks through his uniform, he's feeling warmer already.

 

* * *

 

There's a saying, he thinks.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

. . . Or something like that.

He's not sure if he feels fonder but he sure feels emptier. He's not sure what to do with himself all during practice. Most of his time is spent with Bokuto, working on techniques and practicing tossing. Maybe it's both a blessing and a curse — he feels like he's new, and wobbly on his feet, but he also has the chance to work with his other teammates. He figures that if he's going to be officially on the team, as part of, what they call, the main crew, he has to step up and learn how to work with them. He can't wait for them to come to him like he always has.

Even with his reluctance, the rest of the team waits for him. They slow down to his level. They deal with him despite the fact that he's a first year. They meet his inexperience halfway with their own experience. Every time he makes a mistake, they're right there showing him what he did wrong and how to fix it. 

(He figures that they had done all this before, but his attention had always been focused on solely Bokuto.)

Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes the heart grow stronger.

 

* * *

 

[  _19:17_  ] bokuto 🦉: ghhrjsdfksdjgdsnbdfhsufjdsf

 

[  _19:18_  ] konoha: good morning to you too

 

[  _19:18_  ] komi: Omg is he alive???

 

[  _19:18_  ] bokuto 🦉: hgjehjsrjdshfdfvhsdbfhsdbhfHJSGDFBJSDFdfbhdfd

 

[  _19:19_  ] sarukui: He was so young....

 

[  _19:20_  ] konoha: dearly beloved

[  _19:20_  ] konoha: we are gathered here today to honor the life of bokuto koutarou

[ _19:21_  ] konoha: who died after being stupid not knowing how to take care of his damn self

 

[  _19:21_  ] komi: Sometimes I can still hear his voice....

 

[ _19:22_  ] bokuto 🦉: shutfdd fup ifjsbhjd im fine

[  _19:22_  ] bokuto 🦉: ivelisterally been slepeign all day

 

[  _19:24_  ] are you feeling any better?

 

[  _19:24_  ] bokuto 🦉: AKASHIQU!!!!!! 

 

[  _19:25_  ] sarukui: Akashiqu

 

[  _19:25_  ] konoha: akashiqu-kun

 

[  _19:26_  ] bokuto 🦉: ys 

[  _19:26_  ] bokuto 🦉: ill comeback tomorow :)

 

[  _19:27_  ] yukie: good because I made cookies :)

 

[  _19:28_  ] bokuto 🦉: whst kind

 

[  _19:28_  ] yukie: sugar cookies with icing in the middle

 

[  _19:28_  ] bokuto 🦉: suddenly i am no longer ill

[  _19:29_  ] bokuto 🦉: how was practice

 

[  _19:29_  ] konoha: weird w/o u there

 

[  _19:29_  ] bokuto 🦉: gasp!!!! is that some semblance of love for me i hear???

 

[  _19:30_  ] konoha: ur one of our best players bro -_-

 

[  _19:30_  ] bokuto 🦉:《《o(≧◇≦)o》》

 

[  _19:30_  ] konoha: i am begging you to never send one of those again

 

[  _19:31_  ] bokuto 🦉: (๑′̥̥̥▵‵̥̥̥ ૂ๑)

[  _19:31_  ] bokuto 🦉: one of my cousins set up a separate keyboard for these things on my phone

[  _19:32_  ] bokuto 🦉: we communicate solely in them

[  _19:32_  ] bokuto 🦉:  _screenshot27.jpg_

 

[  _19:33_  ] yukie: omg

[ _19:34_  ] yukie: ʚ♡⃛ɞ(ू•ᴗ•ू❁)

 

[  _19:35_  ] konoha: not you too

 

[  _19:35_  ] komi: ・:*:・(*´艸｀*)・:*:・

 

[  _19:36_  ] sarukui: ¯\\_╏ ՞ ︿ ՞ ╏_/¯

 

[  _19:37_  ] konoha: STOP

 

[  _19:37_  ] bokuto 🦉: (੭ु｡╹▿╹｡)੭ु⁾⁾

 

[  _19:38_  ] yukie: ଘ꒰ ๑ ˃̶ ᴗ ᵒ̴̶̷๑꒱و ̑̑

 

[  _19:38_  ] sarukui: (•̀ᴗ•́)൬༉

 

[  _19:39_  ] komi: ★>d(,,･ε´-,,)⌒☆

 

[  _19:39_  ] konoha: I HATE THIS SO MUCH

[  _19:40_  ] konoha: akaashi-kun

[  _19:40_  ] konoha: please

[  _19:40_  ] konoha: ur the only one that can save me now

 

[  _19:43_  ] ੧| ‾́ェ ‾́ |੭

 

[  _19:43_  ] konoha: BETRAYED

 

[  _19:43_  ] yukie: LMAO

 

[  _19:44_  ] komi: There's nothing that can save u now

 

[  _19:45_  ] bokuto 🦉: ヾ(＠† ▽ †＠）ノ

 

[  _19:46_  ] konoha: ....

[  _19:46_  ] konoha: 凸(｀0´)凸

 

[  _19:47_  ] bokuto 🦉: ೭੧(❛▿❛✿)੭೨

[  _19:48_  ] bokuto 🦉: YAY!!!!!!!!

 

[  _19:49_  ] konoha: are you happy now

 

[  _19:49_  ] bokuto 🦉: yes i feel so much better :))) 

[  _19:49_  ] bokuto 🦉: （*’∀’人）♥

 

[  _19:50_  ] konoha: don't do that

 

* * *

 

The group chat has him feeling so giddy that he's unable to focus on anything else. He's laying in his bed with his notebook and post-its and pens scattered all around them. All of them go ignored in favor of his phone. He's biting on his lip and trying not to laugh too loud, but he's sure he's making suspicious noises from how much he's flopping back and forth on his bed.

As he's scrolling through the previous conversation and figuring out what emojis to set onto his friends' contact names, a notification pops up at the top of his screen. A text from Bokuto. He can't read all of it, and lets the notification disappear, but the little blue arrow taunts him, and pushes anxiety into his throat. He wants to look at it, wants to click it and devour every word, but he hesitates. Why does he hesitate?

He clicks on it.

 

[  _20:13_  ] bokuto 🦉: sorry i didnt let u know i wasnt gonna be there today :(

[  _20:13_  ] bokuto 🦉: i slwpt all day and dint think about it 

 

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too hard. He types out several different versions of the message he sends before he eventually settles on one.

 

[  _20:14_  ] it's alright.

[  _20:14_  ] i'm just glad you're feeling better. 

 

Then he thinks he's maybe being too serious or too weird, so he quickly sends another message—

 

[  _20:14_  ]（＾ｖ＾）

 

—and immediately regrets it. He wishes he could take it back. He covers his eyes and throws his phone off to the side. His body flushes with embarrassment, and he wonders if it's a hidden sign that he should start actually studying.

A few minutes later, he hasn't gotten up to study, but his phone buzzes. Despite his apprehension, he immediately picks it up and opens the message.

 

[  _20:17_  ] bokuto 🦉: OMG

[  _20:17_  ] bokuto 🦉: .ﾟ☆(ノё∀ё)ノ☆ﾟ.

[  _20:18_  ] bokuto 🦉: wat r u doin rn????

 

Oh? He doesn't know how to respond to this. What is he doing, after all, other than fawning over every single one of his friend's messages?

 

[  _20:19_  ] nothing really.

[  _20:19_  ] going over notes.

 

[  _20:20_  ] bokuto 🦉: oh omg

[  _20:20_  ] bokuto 🦉: yukippe brought me notes since were in the same class but my brain is too sick to understand them :(

 

[  _20:21_  ] do you two live near each other?

 

[  _20:21_  ] bokuto 🦉: yeah!!! in the same neighborhood!!!!

[  _20:22_  ] bokuto 🦉: i love her shes so nice

[  _20:22_  ] bokuto 🦉: did u have any of her cookies??

 

[  _20:23_  ] i did. they were very good. she did save some for you.

 

[  _20:23_  ] bokuto 🦉: thank GOD

[  _20:24_  ] bokuto 🦉: on god im gonna inhale them all tomorrow

[  _20:24_  ] bokuto 🦉: oh wait i just realized!! im probably distracting u from studying :(

[  _20:25_  ] bokuto 🦉: i just wsnted to talk to u a bit since i didnt get 2 see u today

 

His face burns. Must Bokuto be so  _earnest?_

 

[  _20:25_  ] it's alright.

[  _20:25_  ] i wasn't doing much studying beforehand, anyway.

 

[  _20:26_  ] bokuto 🦉: well u should go study!! it's getting late!!

[  _20:27_  ] bokuto 🦉: did u eat???

 

He didn't.

 

[  _20:27_  ] yes. did you?

 

[  _20:27_  ] bokuto 🦉: not much :(( im still a lil nauseous

[  _20:28_  ] bokuto 🦉: oh!! i have to go take more medicine

[  _20:28_  ] bokuto 🦉: ill see u tmrw :)

 

[ 20:29 ] goodnight.

[  _20:29_  ] (´〜｀*) zzz

 

[  _20:30_  ] bokuto 🦉: !!!!!!

[  _20:30_  ] bokuto 🦉: (∪｡∪)｡｡｡zzz

[  _20:30_  ] bokuto 🦉: GOODNIGHT!

 

He reads over the messages several times. Over and over, until the words blur together and his eyes burn from the light. He's smiling like an idiot now, and doesn't even try to suppress it. He brings the phone to his face and holds it there until it goes dark from disuse. He tries to calm the beating of his heart. His stomach is doing flips; he couldn't possibly pay attention to his notes now.

Nonetheless, he spreads the papers out in front of them and tries his hardest. He may be a silly mess right now, but he still has a job to do. 

(Everything has to come second to his parents.)

 

* * *

 

Later that night, he sets an emoji specifically for everyone in his phone. He gives Komi the frog emoji. He gives Sarukui the snail emoji. He gives Konoha the explosion emoji. And he gives Yukie the cake emoji.

He stares at his choices for a long time. 

It feels weird to actually have friends to give emojis to.

(He hopes they'll like them.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's important to remember that you can't let yourself rely completely on one person. there's plenty of other kinds of love out there. you can gain fulfillment from anyone, and this includes complete strangers too - both in real life and on the internet.
> 
>  
> 
> [site i used for all the emoticons](http://japaneseemoticons.me/)
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s cold,_ he tells himself, when Bokuto steps closer to the point of their shoulders touching. _To conserve body heat,_ he rationalizes, when their walking slows down as if they could spend even more time together. _We’re just friends,_ he thinks, when he has to force himself to keep from gazing at Bokuto’s face even with his sudden permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL it's been WAY over a month sorry

When he sets the volleyball, it’s like the entire world disappears.

This is something that his parents will never be able to understand. While their lives revolve around money and numbers and whatever else adults think about, he does not think about the answer to the fifth question of his latest quiz. He does not think about how many notes he’s going to take tonight, or how much of his dinner time he’s going to cut out just to look over his textbook again. 

He doesn’t think at all, in reality. He  _ feels. _

He feels the burn of his forearms when he receives, prickling red from the contact of the ball. He feels the leather on the pads of his fingers when he sets to his friends. He feels his eyes water when he stares up at the ceiling for too long, the bright lights from above temporarily blinding him. He feels his feet slip around the slick surface, his old shoes worn down from so much overuse. He feels the arms around his shoulders, he feels the hot breath on his face and neck from how close everyone is, he feels their laughter and their excitement.

He feels, and he sees. The world around him is blossoming with so many colors he never thought could have existed. The colors in his friends’ eyes are quickly becoming some of his favorites, because he finds it hard to stop staring at the twinkle in them when they’re excited.

(Out of all of them, though, he thinks he likes gold the most.)

 

* * *

 

In the locker room, he stares.

He shouldn’t, and from the way Bokuto keeps glancing over at him, he must think that he’s staring because of the binder that’s wrapped around his chest. Although he thinks about it —  _ was he wearing it all throughout practice? doesn’t that hurt? _ — he’s mostly staring at the rest of Bokuto. In his school uniform he can see the way the fabric pulls along his muscles. In his volleyball uniform everything is a bit more clear, more visible. But now, dressed in nothing but his slacks, he watches the way Bokuto’s back muscles stretch when he hurriedly pulls his shirt over his head. He can see the years of effort put into changing his body, and not just for volleyball. 

He feels like an idiot for staring so much, and he forces his gaze away when Bokuto gives an uncomfortable laugh and turns to the side to start chatting with Komi and Konoha. The other two are wiping the sweat off their faces with towels, and when Komi turns around for one moment to fish out his shoes from his sports bag, Konoha rolls up the used towel in his hands and smacks it against Komi’s neck. The sound it makes echoes through the locker room.

The latter squeals, and whirls around, his face going red from the other’s laughter. In retaliation, he rolls up his own towel, and throws it as hard as he can in Konoha’s direction. The towel wraps around Konoha’s face, and he stumbles, shouting curses.

Sarukui, the unexpected warrior himself, rolls up a spare towel while Konoha is trying to fish Komi’s towel off of him. Sarukui snaps the base of Konoha’s spine, and he ends up tripping over the nearby bench, the towel finally rolling off his face. Konoha gazes dazedly up at the ceiling, holding the back of his head and groaning. The others are laughing, and Konoha just rolls his eyes at them.

“That was uncalled for.”

“You smacked me with your sweaty towel!”

“Here, I’ll get you another one then.”

Konoha grabs a nearby towel and tosses it in Komi’s direction. The latter pats his face with it, then pauses. 

“This is your other towel, isn’t it?”

“No, no, of course not. It’d be selfish of me to have more than one towel.”

Except he’s laughing too much to really pull it off, and when Komi starts yelling again, he sees Bokuto quickly walk out of the locker room to avoid the chaos. 

 

* * *

 

 

They start walking home in complete silence. It is not the comfortable silence that he has gotten used to, nor one that is awkward. It’s tense, and he feels like he’s being too loud with every step he takes. Bokuto is a few paces ahead of him, head hanging down, his hands gripped tight over the strap of his bag. It’s almost like he’s trying to stifle his own breathing, to keep the rise and fall of his chest minuscule and subtle.

He should say something —  _ anything, _ really. The thought of even opening his mouth sparks a surge of anxiety through him. His jaw is clenched so tightly he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to speak again. His teeth hurt from how hard they’re squeezed together. His entire body feels pressurized, like he’s about to explode any moment.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, all airy and in a rush, and he feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

Bokuto stops in place and turns around. There’s confusion written all over his expression, like he can’t imagine why he’s apologizing. “Huh?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and hesitates. He doesn’t know why apologizing is so hard, and why he feels so embarrassed. “For . . .” He still can’t say it. He turns his head off to the side. “The locker room.” He hopes Bokuto will get it.

Bokuto just keeps staring. “What? What about the locker room?”

If he drops the subject now, it’ll just make things more awkward. Apologizing is weird, and he doesn’t like it, but he has to. He has to.

“I was staring at you. If I made you uncomfortable, I, um . . . I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to.” His face is just getting warmer, even in the cool air around them. “I was just — I was worried.”

The other’s expression is unreadable now. “ _ If  _ . . .” he mutters to himself, and then says, “You were  _ worried?” _

“Yes. I was.”

“Well. You don’t have to be. I’m fine.” From his tone, he senses that what he’s saying isn’t entirely true. His mouth quivers like he wants to say more, but all he does is turn around and keep walking.

He’s made it worse.

A few more minutes pass. Then, Bokuto abruptly stops, and he runs into his back from it. He bounces off, and Bokuto grabs his arm to keep him steady, but doesn’t let go when he turns around.

“Actually,” he says, his voice high. “It’s—it’s  _ not  _ fine. No. It’s not.” He takes a deep breath, and his hand loosens on his arm, but he doesn’t want him to let go. Bokuto’s touch is warm. “I  _ was  _ uncomfortable. It’s not—it’s not  _ if _ you made me uncomfortable. You did.” He’s starting to ramble now, and his face is getting pink from his lack of breathing. “I—I get it, I guess. It’s weird to see it. It throws people off. But it’s easy to look away. Why didn’t you just look away?”

“I . . . I don’t think I could look away even if I tried.”

“So you think I’m weird too, right? Just like everyone else on the team.”

“No. No. I don’t. I was just admiring you.”

“ . . . What?”

“You’ve done so much just to play volleyball.”

“I don’t even—I don’t  _ like  _ volleyball that much.”

“I don’t believe you.”

This time, Bokuto really does let go of him. He doesn’t move away. 

“I shouldn’t have stared,” he says, and it’s easier to say the words now. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t for the reason you think.”

He _ feels. _ He can feel the anxiety lingering in Bokuto’s form. He can feel his own anxiety in the air around them.

“Sorry for overreacting,” is what Bokuto says next.

Whatever is the right thing to say, it doesn’t come to him — not this time. He looks down at his feet, and bites the inside of his cheek. “Don’t apologize,” is all he can manage now. His throat feels like it’s burning. His stomach is twisting. 

When they separate, he realizes that Bokuto did not smile at him once.

 

* * *

 

It’s when he gets home that everything he could’ve said comes to him.

He should’ve said,  _ Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. _

He should’ve said,  _ Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you. _

He should’ve said,  _ You don’t need to apologize to anyone for how you feel. _

Except he’s useless, and bad with words, and here is again — making excuses. He can’t even make his friend feel better. He and his stupid crush has only made things worse.

(And here he is, blaming himself, and making everything about him.)

He can’t even bring himself to eat anything. That night, instead of working on his homework like he should, he stares at Bokuto’s contact information, his finger clicking on the message button over and over, and eventually backing out of it. Bokuto does not text him either.

Before he decides to just go to sleep, he clicks  _ edit, _ and adds a star emoji behind the owl.

 

* * *

 

_ (“I don’t even—I don’t even like volleyball that much.” _

How could he have believed this, when he saw Bokuto play with his very own eyes? When he saw Bokuto soar through the air like a comet — made of fire rather than ice? When he saw Bokuto cheer and smile and jump in the air after every spike?

Was it just victory he enjoyed?

It’s hard to think that such a being — one full of energy and light — could feel only . . .  _ indifferent  _ towards the sport he plays. 

He still doesn’t believe him. Not one bit.)

 

* * *

 

[  _ 07:12 _ ] komi  🐸 : omg

[  _ 07:12 _ ] komi 🐸: interhighs….

 

[  _ 07:13 _ ] konoha  💥 : shut the HELL up don’t remind me

 

[  _ 07:14 _ ] sarukui  🐌 : We’ll be fine

[  _ 07:14 _ ] sarukui  🐌 : We made it through them last time remember

 

[ _ 07:15 _ ] konoha  💥 : i know but it’s still nervewracking

[  _ 07:15 _ ] konoha  💥 : i heard some of the teams this year are…. surely something.

 

[  _ 07:16 _ ] yukie 🍰: you said that last year lol

 

[  _ 07:17 _ ] konoha  💥 : y’know maybe i just like to appreciate my fellow volleyballers 

 

[  _ 07:18  _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: VOLLEYBALLERS

[  _ 07:18  _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: WE FLY HIGH

 

[  _ 07:19 _ ] yukie 🍰: NO LIE

 

[ _ 07:19  _ ] konoha  💥 : you know this

 

[  _ 07:20 _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: BALLIN

 

[  _ 07:20  _ ] yukie 🍰: BALLIN

 

[  _ 07:21  _ ] komi 🐸: Omg its 7 in the morning guys

 

[  _ 07:22 _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: yup so u better be ON UR FEET n READY 2 GO!!!! INTERHIGHS HERE WE COME

 

[  _ 07:23  _ ] konoha  💥 : ugh

 

[  _ 07:23 _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: man be quiet we are going to WIN. and go to nationals.

 

[  _ 07:24  _ ] sarukui  🐌 : Nationals are a long way away

 

[  _ 07:25 _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: doesnt mean we cant get hyped up rn

 

[  _ 07:25 _ ] yukie 🍰: save that energy for the court this morning buddy

 

[  _ 07:26  _ ] bokuto 🦉⭐: yes ma’am   
  


* * *

 

 

He can’t bring himself to send a single message into the group chat, so he settles for just watching the messages going back and forth as he readies himself in the morning.All he does is think of Bokuto, and his expressions, and his words. His thoughts being filled with him is not anything knew, but today, they are filled with something new. Once again, he feels the childish fear that Bokuto will not want to be his friend anymore, but there is a whole new spin on it  — this time, it could become a reality.

The entire duration of his walk to the train station is filled with nothing but dread. He has this awful image in his head: he will arrive at the train station, and Bokuto will not be there. Maybe Bokuto will take a different train, or he won’t even show up at school today. It’s a silly thought, because he knows Bokuto will be at morning practice, but his mind continuously supplies him with situations, no matter how outlandish, where Bokuto will be gone.

(He will arrive at the train station, and Bokuto will not be there.)

As he gets closer, he hears the chatter of other high school students and the scraping of metal against metal. His sleeve catches on the revolving door and he struggles for a moment to break himself free.

(He will arrive at the train station, and Bokuto will not be there.)

What if he ends up being late for his train too? The idea of having to wait for another train is unbearable. The idea of having to call his parents to ask for a ride is even more so.

(He will arrive at the train station, and Bokuto will not be there.)

He walks up to the station, and —

“‘kaashi!”

Startled, he replies, “It’s  _ Akaashi.” _

Bokuto smiles at him. It almost makes him melt, right then and there, in front of everyone. “How many times are you gonna say that?”

In all reality, he doesn’t mind the way Bokuto says his name. For a moment, he tries to imagine Bokuto saying his given name, but he doesn’t even make it through the first syllable before his face goes red and he has to turn away.

“As many times as it takes,” he jokes, and for a moment, he forgets all of his previous apprehension. He forgets the way Bokuto had looked at him yesterday. He forgets the ramblings spoken from a man like he’s just learned how to express himself for the first time.

“I dunno,” Bokuto says. “I like hearing your voice, so maybe I’ll keep saying it wrong.”

_ Oh. _ “Well . . . I can’t stop you.”

Bokuto smiles again. It’s strange. His behavior is strange. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and he keeps turning away rather than facing everything head-on like always. He keeps his head tilted up so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. When they get onto the train, it feels like Bokuto is miles away from him, and not only physically. 

It’s like his friend has gone away, and has been replaced with an impostor — one who looks and talks just like Bokuto, but lacks that one thing that makes him who he is. 

He has the awful feeling that it’s all his fault.

 

* * *

 

It frustrates him — how cowardly he is. It frustrates him — how distant Bokuto is. 

He cannot even being himself to make a move, or an attempt, to make his friend feel better. He recognizes Bokuto’s behavior because he’s done it himself —  _ don’t be upset, you’ll make them mad _ .

He could never be angry at someone for simply expressing their emotions. He wants to  _ say  _ something; he wants to pull Bokuto aside and sit him down and tell him everything he admires about him.

But he’s a coward, so he sits aside and watches the rest of Bokuto’s friends do it for him.

 

* * *

 

Now that Interhighs are near, practice is much more intense.

He tries to lose himself in the sport — to forget his faults, even for just a little bit. He feels awful about it. He feels awful about using the sport he sacrificed so much more just to spare himself of his own guilt. He feels awful about trying to ignore his own guilt in the first place. He hurt Bokuto, and he was just feeling sorry for himself.

(And although all these thoughts cross his mind, he can hardly bring himself to stop. Why should he, when Bokuto is smiling over by all of his friends, without him? Maybe without his presence, everything would be alright. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt Bokuto anymore if he had just stayed away.)

His voice keeps catching in his throat whenever someone attempts to speak to him. When Bokuto greets him, he can’t move, or think. When the others try to ask him about his day, all he can say is _ It was fine.  _ Fine. He wants to elaborate but he does not even have the energy to do so. He feels he’s being too obvious with his reluctance to hang around Bokuto, but even that is just a front. Even when he’s thinking about Bokuto’s best interests, he wants to be next to him. He wants to both stay away and never leave him at the same time.

In the end, he settles for staying silent. It’s always worked in the past.

 

* * *

 

(Maybe his parents were right.

He should’ve just gone to Suzumeoka.)

 

* * *

 

 

The energy of the locker room is uneasy. Eventually, everyone leaves, except for him and Bokuto.

There is a heavy silence in the air for a long time. He feels he’s being too loud when he throws his shirt on, the shuffle of fabric as loud as a slam against metal. The creak of his locker itself echoes and feels like a punch to the face. Bokuto himself is quiet; he makes no sound as he moves. For a moment, he thinks he might have even left without saying anything, until he hears Bokuto’s own locker close.

They stand there for a while.

Then, “I wish you wouldn’t pretend.”

Bokuto turns, and gives him a confused look. “What?”

“You’ve felt miles away all day,” he says, and when he looks at Bokuto his stare is so intense that he has to turn his back to him. He starts buttoning up his shirt to distract himself from what he’s really saying. “Is it because of me?”

More silence. Anxiety starts to bear down on him like the weight of a thousand moons.

Eventually, “Well, I . . . I wouldn’t put it like  _ that.” _

“So it is.” 

“I didn’t say _that._ ”

This time, he turns and meets his stare. He opens his mouth, but the words he wants to say die on his lips, and he simply shuts his mouth. His lips squeeze together, to keep himself from saying the wrong thing.

Bokuto makes a noise, and clenches his fists. “It’s just . . . well. I thought I overreacted.”

He blinks. “ _ What?” _

“I overreacted. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’m trying to work on that—”

“No, no. Stop.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Stop. Don’t say that.”

“I—”

“Don’t call that  _ overreacting,” _ he says quickly, almost pleadingly. “That wasn’t — it was my fault—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bokuto interrupts. “I get that something like that . . . it—it can be  _ weird,  _ so—”

“Bokuto-san—”

“—I didn’t have the right to get so upset. I’m fine, really, I was just having a bad day—”

“ _ Bokuto-san!” _ He shouts it, this time, much louder than he actually means to. He’s tired of this rambling, tired of this babble when there is no truth to it. His hands are in the air and they’re shaking. He isn’t sure if it’s just him who is shaking. Bokuto’s eyes are wide and startled, much like an owl. Despite the fear crawling up his throat, he continues, “You . . . you aren’t weird for wanting to be yourself.” Bokuto averts his gaze. He goes on, “I—I was so worried about you all day. I wanted to apologize, but it—it just seemed so  _ awkward, _ and I . . .” He stops himself for a second, takes a moment to breathe in and breathe out. He doesn’t know when Bokuto got so much closer, but he doesn’t mind it. “This is embarrassing to admit, but . . . you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want to do anything to ruin that.”

A moment passes. Bokuto tenses up, and then goes crimson.

“I—” he stammers out. “ _ Really? _ Your _ first?” _

“Is  _ that  _ the only part of that you listened to?”

“Um. Well, _no,_ but—but it was pretty _out there,_ y'know!"

“I would appreciate it if we did not focus on that."

“Sorry, right, right . . . but—”

“Bokuto _ -san,” _ he says, firmly, and it cuts Bokuto right off. “Please stop pretending to be okay when you’re not. If you really think of me as your friend . . . then let me help you.”

“You just said you're bad at apologizing!”

“I  _ implied  _ it.”

“Still!”

“Then we’ll learn together!” he exclaims, exasperated. “F—Friends grow together . . . right?”

Bokuto’s blush goes back down to pink. “. . . Right.”

“So let me try this again.” He goes through his mental list of everything he had wished he said to Bokuto the other night. “Bokuto _ -san, _ I’m sorry. Don’t blame yourself for having a justifiable reaction to things. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

“Bokuto _ -san.” _

Bokuto pouts in reply. It’s cute. He almost laughs, but holds himself back to keep the moment. “I’m sorry for staring.”  _ I’m sorry for making everything about myself, _ he says in his head.  _ I’m sorry for making excuses. I’m sorry for only thinking about myself when you needed something more. _

Instead of trying to protest again, Bokuto just smiles. He smiles back, surprised at how easily it comes to him. The rest of their time in the locker room is filled with silence, once more, but it’s comfortable rather than awkward. It’s strange to not have his ears filled with Bokuto’s chatter but he doesn’t exactly mind either way.

(As long as he’s with Bokuto, it’ll be okay. He’ll take him any day. 

He’ll take him however he is.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Y’know . . .” Bokuto says, speaking up for the first time since the locker room. The wind around them is almost louder than his voice, and when he continues, his voice is so soft it can barely be heard. “I don’t mind if you stare.”

“Hm?” he asks, because not only is he soft, but he doesn’t know if he heard him right. His heartbeat picks up.

Bokuto’s cheeks go pink again. “I don’t mind if you stare,” he says again, louder, pointedly refusing to look at the other. “You don’t have to stop. Just . . . at a different time.”

“ _ Ah,  _ ” he says in reply, but on the inside he wants to jump around and maybe scream into a pillow. “I’ll . . . keep that in mind.”

_ It’s cold, _ he tells himself, when Bokuto steps closer to the point of their shoulders touching.  _ To conserve body heat, _ he rationalizes, when their walking slows down as if they could spend even more time together.  _ We’re just friends, _ he thinks, when he has to force himself to keep from gazing at Bokuto’s face even with his sudden permission.

(Just friends.)

 

* * *

 

 

[ _ 22:47 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : its easier to say this over text

[  _ 22:47 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : so

[ _ 22:47  _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : thanks

 

[ _ 22:48  _ ] i told you that you didn’t have to thank me.

 

[ _ 22:49 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : i know

[ _ 22:49 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : but i wanted to anyway

[  _ 22:50 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : idk how many people have put that much thought into friendship with me

 

[  _ 22:51  _ ] a lot more people care about you than you think.

[  _ 22:52 _ ] you just naturally draw in people.

 

[ _ 22:53 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : ah well

[ _ 22:53  _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : thanks anyway

 

[  _ 22:54  _ ] you’re welcome.

[ _ 22:54 _ ] go to bed.

 

[  _ 22:55  _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : omg so demanding

[  _ 22:55 _ ] bokuto  🦉⭐ : goodnight!!! :)   
  


* * *

 

 

Sleeping is a lot easier that night. Even ignoring his parents is easier. 

Every part of his body is warm. When he’s in bed that night, instead of screaming into his pillow, he turns around, and buries his giant smile in it instead.

 

* * *

 

 

Taking Bokuto up on his offer to stare at him is easy enough. He feels, again, and sees the colors and the light right before his eyes, making him feel like volleyball really is more than just a sport. Bokuto really is incredible when he plays; so much that he still cannot believe his claim of not liking volleyball as much as he puts out. He’s so powerful when he plays, and he has so much power over the court even as just a second year. Bokuto himself is one of the driving forces of the team, and the mood of practice is upbeat and inspired, but when he witnesses Bokuto’s cross spike getting blocked for the third time, the atmosphere dooms itself into darkness and he crawls over to go dramatically hide underneath the desk. The third years pay no attention and just go back to practicing.  _ Interhighs, _ they claim. Too important to spare a few moments trying to console a minor predicament.

He feels almost offended on Bokuto’s behalf. He steps over to the desk, puts his hands behind his back, and leans down to peek underneath. “Bokuto _ -san?” _

Bokuto gives a sob. “ _ Akaashi,  _ ” he whines, and he doesn’t bother correcting him. “My cross spike . . .”

“What about it?”

“It keeps getting  _ blocked!  _ By my own team!”

He pauses for a moment. “Do you want to try it again?”

“No! They’ll just block it again . . .” He pouts. “They must think I’m an idiot.”

“Well . . . then why don’t you try a different kind of spike? Show off some variety?”

Bokuto hits his head on the top of the desk trying to shuffle himself out. He groans, cradles the crown of his head, and slides up to prop his arms up on the desk. Despite his pained expression, his eyes are sparkling. Their other teammates are all watching them.

“Would you help me?” he asks quickly. “Help me with spiking?”

It’s such a sudden question that he’s taken aback for a moment. He blinks owlishly once, twice, three times.

“It’s like you said,” Bokuto continues, like he has to convince the other to go along with him, “we can, uh . . . learn together.”

But still, he’s never been able to say no to Bokuto.

“Sure,” he tries to say calmly. “Try not to hit your head again on the way out.”

 

* * *

 

 

(“You sure you want to get stuck with him again, Akaashi?” asks the third-year captain. “I get he can be a little annoying sometimes—”

“He’s not annoying,” he interrupts with as much respect as he can muster, “and I’m more than willing to spend with him the time that you all refuse to give him.”

The captain blinks. The vice just laughs.

_ Stuck with him, _ they said, like Bokuto wasn’t something worth their while.. He knows Bokuto can be a better captain than them.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder who helped bokuto develop his special straight spike.............
> 
> [my blog](http://haikuyus.tumblr.com/)


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